


Stupidity or Serendipity?

by realjane



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, F/M, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:41:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 48,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21835357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/realjane/pseuds/realjane
Summary: Hermione runs into Draco Malfoy while attempting to finish her Christmas shopping... what would be a meet-cute for a less fraught couple becomes a strange tea date, and then an agreement--you help me and I'll return the favor.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 153
Kudos: 315





	1. Serendipity

“Sweetheart! I have been hunting like a rabid dog for you, I swear--” a man curled his fingers around her elbow in a pleading manner, pushing her towards the far end of the stalls. He was being followed by several uniformed persons, with uniform scowls. Hermione brandished her wand from inside her sleeve and pressed it to the softest part of the strange man’s wrist.

“Do you really think that's wise?” she said, firmly.

The man continued pushing her towards the edge of the lane but he released her elbow readily, directing her with the imposing curve of his shoulders more than anything. He smiled down at her sweetly and shook his head as if she had just said something delightful and daft.

“Put that away,” he murmured, gesturing for her to proceed into a shop full of men’s apparel. “You aren’t really going to curse me in public, are you?”

“I’m not against the idea,” she whispered. She pocketed the wand and stepped up to the counter. Her heart was racing. The man stepped up beside her and pointed to a bow tie behind glass. 

“Now, what do you think of that one?” he asked. 

The bell on the door tinkled and the uniformed trio stepped into the tiny shop, effectively infringing on Hermione and the man’s space. Hermione glanced at the stranger and he looked up at her earnestly. 

“Can I help you?” the shopkeeper asked, swiveling around on her stool behind the counter. “I see you eyeing our collection of ascots, sir. Perhaps the burnt umber?”

The man seemed to consider this option as the shopkeeper produced said ascot from the case and laid it out. It had minute golden paisleys woven into the silk. Hermione wrinkled her nose.

“It’s too much,” Hermione said. 

The shopkeeper produced a brown scarf with an argyl pattern. The man considered it. “This could be nice, dear.”

Again, Hermione shook her head. “It’s all wrong for you!”

“What, am I ugly in earth tones?” he scoffed. “You know, I’m beginning to wonder if you ever liked me.” 

“I don’t even know who you are anymore!” Hermione spat.

The tallest of the officers, who up until now had merely been observing their conversation (and Hermione assumed waiting for their moment to snatch the man), held up a hand between them. “Is there a problem, here?” he asked.

The man sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose. “No, officer. Well, yes… a deeply-rooted problem that I have been refusing to face for what feels like ten years, and now I’m forgetting what that young man saw all those years ago--”

“What happened to _that_ young man?” Hermione asked, folding her arms. She had nearly revealed the charade, listening to him speak so earnestly.

“Whatever happened to the girl who met me where I am?” The man stepped closer to her, nearly nose-to-nose. Hermione looked down and shook her head.

“You were late,” she said. He stepped back from her, hand to his chest.

The man reached into his coat and produced a small box, which he set on the counter. “I was saving this for Christmas,” he said softly. “But I can see, now, that it may be an impossibility.”

The man sidled between Hermione and the officers and stepped through the door of the shop, pausing on the step. He turned back. “If you decide that you can forgive me for not being your father… I’ll be at our pub.” He pulled his coat tighter around himself and walked away.

Hermione grabbed the box on the counter and opened it. It was a massive emerald ring, set in a bevvy of diamonds. She gasped. No charade was needed to feign shock. What was he playing at?

“Tough break, love,” the shopkeeper said to Hermione. She sniffled and pocketed the ring.

“I’m sorry for causing a spectacle,” Hermione said. “And you do have lovely things, I beg your pardon for what I said.”

The shopkeeper shrugged. “Men are dogs.”

“This particular man is a snake,” Hermione said. The officers chuckled and parted to let her pass. “Thank you.”

Hermione tightened the scarf at her neck and leaned into the brisk wind. Well, her afternoon plans of Christmas shopping had just been dashed, and now she had to find the snake. But there was only one place he would’ve considered “their” pub, so it was only a matter of getting on her way and returning the priceless heirloom ring. It was no more than a fifteen minute walk, so he didn’t have that much of a head-start. She wondered what he had been doing in Covent Garden a week before Christmas; surely he didn’t have muggle business. Or maybe he did, how was Hermione to know what he got up to, now that they weren’t forced by professors to share hallways, cauldrons, or tea leaves? It had been… ten years since she had seen him last? No… it had to be more. He was clearly still part of the wizarding world in England if he was willing to haunt The Leaky Cauldron. Hermione pulled the box out of her pocket. The top was engraved with a crest and an unmistakable swirling ‘M’.

The bell on the door tinkled as Hermione entered The Leaky Cauldron. Merlin… it was decorated top to bottom with greenery, floating candles, and an array of crystal baubles. Tom had been busy. The man himself greeted Hermione from behind the bar; he was wearing a jaunty blue velvet top hat.

“Morning, Ms. Granger,” Tom said warmly. “Your party is waiting in the snug, I just brought in the tea.” He gestured towards the other end of the mahogany bar, where the curtained snug was illuminated. She could just see a pair of fine italian loafers through the doorway. 

“Ah, thank you Tom,” she said. Hermione thought it practical that he had booked the snug verses an open table, despite the fact that there were no other patrons in the pub so early on a Tuesday. But one could never be too careful--Rita Skeeter was particularly tricky these days, and often had a spy reporter posted up at the bar to keep her informed of any strange meetings.

She closed the door of the snug behind her and hung her coat on the hook. He wore a green turtleneck jumper (because of course he would) and a pleasant smile on his much-matured face. Hermione set the ring box on the table between them as she sat. Draco took a sip of his tea and hummed.

“Thank you,” he said. “Mother would’ve killed me.” He tucked the box into his own coat.

“It seemed like I didn’t really have a choice,” Hermione shrugged. Draco poured her a cup of tea and slid it across the table. “Priceless family heirloom, and all that.”

“Oh, it’s worthless,” he said. “It’s just a copy. But what if you sold it to Rita Skeeter or Merlin forbid _appeared in public wearing it_ ; I would be crucified.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “If this is the set up for a blood-purity joke, I’ll just be going--”

Draco touched her arm. “No, no. I’m sorry. I’m insufferable this morning, just ignore me.”

Hermione took a sip of her tea and considered him over the rising steam. He hummed something to himself and opened a muggle newspaper, as if nothing had happened this morning that was in any way unusual. He had quite a handsome face, now. His skin was wrinkling around the eyes and mouth, which went against his childhood propensity for constantly scowling. He must’ve been making up for that, lately.

She grew impatient. “So you accosted me in Covent Garden, because…” 

He didn’t look up at her, but he chuckled. “Because I saw you take that scarf without paying for it, and so did the bobbies.” He sipped his tea.

Hermione blanched and looked down at the painted silk scarf, which was draped guiltily around her neck. “I didn’t even realize…”

“I know.”

“I was distracted--”

“I saw that.”

“I have to go back and pay for it!” Hermione stood, bumping the table and upsetting the teacup into her own lap. “Bollocks!”

Draco slid out of the snug and grabbed a rag from Tom to mop up the tea, which had soaked his newspaper and the knit doily that adorned the table. Hermione charmed her skirt dry. Thankfully, wool was forgiving. She sat down again, defeatedly. Draco returned with a small plate of biscuits, adiosed the wet newspaper, and then refilled her cup. “Don’t fret about the scarf,” he said. 

“I’m not a thief,” Hermione said softly. “I’m just… ugh! Nevermind.”

“I took care of it,” Draco said. He pulled a different periodical from a black case, something to do with muggle plant life.

“You did what?”

“I paid for the scarf,” he said. “Told the shopkeeper that I had whisked my girlfriend away so quickly that I had caused her to take the scarf by accident. I apologized on both our behalf.” Hermione narrowed her eyes at him and he glanced up at her. “What? It’s mostly true.”

“You didn’t have to cause a scene, Malfoy!” Hermione huffed. “You could’ve just said ‘oh, I noticed you didn’t pay for that, insert-derogatory-comment-about-purity-here’ and had done with me.”

“I have a flare for the dramatic,” he said. “And I am not a blood purist anymore, no matter how much you insist it.” He folded up the magazine and sat back. “Besides, if I had walked up to you in public for the first time in twelve years, would you not have Avada’d me on the spot?” He was smiling as he said it. She couldn’t help but smile.

“Excuse me, jelly-legs jinxes are much more my style,” Hermione said. 

“Then I think we can both agree that theatrics were necessary, in this case.” Draco opened his magazine to an earmarked page. “Oh! Pitcher-plants. They are bizarre!”

“Why were _you_ in Covent Garden?” Hermione asked. Draco smirked.

“Buying back that ridiculous fake emerald from Les Néréides,” he sighed, rolling his eyes. “ _Someone_ \--I won’t say who--thought the best way to get back at me for breaking off our engagement was to sell the Malfoy nestegg to a muggle jeweller who wouldn’t know its significance. Good thing I didn’t give her the real one, eh?” He turned the page and another article caught his attention.

“How much did you have to pay to get it back?” Hermione asked. Draco scoffed.

“More money than it’s worth and less money than your new scarf,” he said. “What were _you_ doing in Covent Garden, besides absent-mindedly nicking scarves?”

“Christmas shopping,” she said.

“For your husband?” he asked innocently, but his eyebrow raised.

“Haven’t got one of those,” she said. “I was shopping for Molly Weasley, and I just… got to thinking about _my_ mum somehow, and--” Hermione stopped and drank a deep gulp of tea, despite the temperature. She wiped her mouth. Draco put his magazine away and leaned forward. 

“And what?” he asked softly. “Did you lose your mum?”

“Not in the way you’re implying,” she admitted. “I… obliviated my parents. During the war. So, they’re not a part of my life anymore. But mum… she loved silk, she used to watercolor. In her spare time. She would’ve liked this one,” she said, fingering the silk at her neck. “And… I don’t know why I told you that.” She swiped at her eyes and sat up straight.

“I touched a nerve,” he said sadly. “I am sorry.” Hermione shrugged.

“This time of year is fraught for me,” she said. “I have the Weasleys though, and Harry. Still have a chosen family.”

“That’s more than I can say,” Draco said, but he was almost… cheerful about it. Hermione must have made a face of pity because he held up a hand. “Now, now. I am perfectly happy with my Yuletide shawarma tradition. And now that I’m not engaged to a Parkinson, I’ll be able to actually _enjoy_ myself. Heck, I’ve never done any of those odd Christmas-tide things that apparently muggles enjoy… Pansy found them infantile. Maybe I’ll go ice skating.”

Hermione nodded. “Parkinson, eh?”

Draco shrugged. “I was weak.”

“We’ve all dated people we regret,” she said sympathetically.

“At least I didn’t date Ron Weasley,” he teased. Hermione tossed a biscuit at him, but she laughed. Draco ate the biscuit she had tossed. The tension was dispelled.

Draco leaned back with crossed arms. He was smiling at her so sweetly, it made Hermione blush. He had grown into one of those weird self-assured adults who keeps really good eye contact and Hermione was having many, many, conflicting feelings about it.

“How many people are left on your shopping list?” he asked.

“All of the Weasleys, so that’s nine,” she said, counting on her fingers. “Luna, Neville, my assistant… so twelve.” Hermione cringed. “I’ve been procrastinating.”

A queer look crossed Draco’s face. He leaned forward and clasped his hands on the table. “I will help you finish your Christmas shopping.”

Hermione blushed. “I don’t need you to do that--”

“I don’t mean pay for them,” he said quickly. “Just help you pick them out.”

“Why would you do that?” Hermione asked.

Draco shrugged for the millionth time. “I have really enjoyed myself this afternoon.”

“Okay… and what do you get in return?” Hermione asked. “If history is any indicator, you’ve always got an angle.” But she smiled when she said it because she couldn’t stop herself. It was completely involuntary.

“Well, that is true…” he agreed with a chuckle. “Show me how muggles do Christmas.”

“You want to observe muggle culture--in the wild?”

“Not just that--I want to participate.” He rested his head on his hands and made his best pleading face. “I’ve heard it requires jollity and I’m up for the task.”

Hermione shook her head. Well? Why not? This day couldn’t get any weirder and she did have to admit that she was enjoying herself, even if Draco seemed confunded. “All right. For every present you help me find, I’ll show you one muggle Christmas-related thing.”

“Haha! Excellent!” Draco stood and pulled on his coat.

“What, right _now_?” Hermione asked. Draco grabbed Hermione’s coat and held it open for her.

“Christmas is in four days.”

“Good point.” Hermione stood and slid her arms into her coat with Draco’s help. They set out down the street, each with their coats buttoned to their chins.


	2. Surprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione introduces Draco to a Christmas market.

“Where to first?” Draco asked as they hastened away from the Leaky Cauldron. 

“We probably shouldn’t go back to Covent Garden after our little show,” Hermione said. “We could go to South Bank, there’s a Christmas market and loads of shops. I don’t know the nearest apparition point, but it’s too cold to walk. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to cut through the Ministry…”

“I’d rather be hit by the Knight Bus.”

“Tube it is.”

“Lead the way!” 

They fell in step, the heels of Draco’s loafers clacking on the pavement (how can such a soft-looking shoe _clack_ like that? Hermione thought.). She tried not to look at him but she was so curious. He easily kept pace with her, however, and she found herself trying to make him hasten… but the faster she walked, the longer strides he took, until--HONK HONK!

Draco’s fingers closed around Hermione’s elbow and yanked her backwards. A black cab whizzed past. Hermione breathed out heavily and looked up at the man whose hand was still affixed on her arm. He had wide, concerned eyes.

“A bit preoccupied?” he murmured.

“You have a habit of grabbing my elbow when I’m in peril,” she observed. Draco slowly released his grip.

“As extremities go, I feel it is the least presumptuous part to grab if one’s acquaintance is in danger,” he said, gesturing for her to walk across the street.

“As opposed to, like, hair or something…” Hermione began, but stopped herself. Her cheeks grew hot. “I am quite preoccupied.” She crossed the street and didn’t bother to make sure he was following her. Which he was, hands jammed in his pockets, striding _behind_ her this time like some silent bodyguard. She could feel his gaze on the back of her head.

Hermione lead Draco into the nearest tube station and taught him how to purchase a ticket, use the turnstyle, and find the right platform. 

The train approached and they boarded amongst a sea of shoppers with their hands full of glittering holiday bags. They were ultimately forced to stand, squished between a clump of businessmen and a frustrated mother with two twin, teenage sons. Hermione wrapped her hand in the plastic strap above her head and pointed to the one above Draco. He mimicked her. They couldn’t help but stand chest-to-chest; with every bump on the tracks, they jostled into each other. Hermione wound up practically slapping his chest to keep from collapsing into him as one of the teenage boys lurched into her. She looked over her shoulder at the offending teen, who was snickering with his brother. She huffed and turned back to see Draco smiling, too.

“Much more dignified than flushing oneself down a toilet,” he whispered to her with a grin. Hermione coughed a laugh into her hand. Draco adjusted his stance and switched arms, offering a gloved hand to her. “Help us stay upright, here,” he explained. Hermione took the proffered hand and he squeezed. He pulled her closer to him and it did seem to help. Either that, or Hermione was too caught up trying to figure out the scent of his cologne to notice other passengers ramming into her. He smelled sort of… pine-y? Or… no, cedar. Definitely cedar, maybe a hint of cinnamon… It was quite festive, really. He smelled like a Christmas tree farm. Or a candle. The kind of candle Molly Weasley would charm to burn endlessly in the loo during family holiday gatherings. Hermione laughed and Draco raised an eyebrow at the way she was considering him.

“What?” Draco asked with a smirk.

“You smile a lot,” she observed quietly, which only made him smile larger. “It’s unsettling.”

“I’m nice now.”

She coughed. “You’re... nice now.” She raised her eyebrows in question. His smile settled into a gentle, pleasant curve of the lips.

“Mmm.” He squeezed their joined hands as if that provided evidence.

“Why?” Draco looked down at her hand and cleared his throat. She thought she saw his cheeks redden.

“Pills. Lovegood teaches about… plants, right? Do you think she would enjoy a... wheeled… trolley, thing?” he asked suddenly.

“A wheelbarrow?”

“Wheel… what?” He looked entirely puzzled.

“Barrow? Nevermind. Trolley, as you said," Hermione sighed. “I’m sure she has one--what do you mean, ‘pills?”

He sighed. “A host of antidepressants that I need not bore you with, and Tic Tacs, after I’ve eaten.” Draco leaned close to her as the businessmen pushed past at their stop. “They’re all the rage. All the cool kids are doing them under doctoral supervision.” 

Hermione studied his face. So, he _had_ gotten some help after the war. She had heard a rumor when she worked for the Ministry that Draco Malfoy had been seen at St. Mungo’s repeatedly, but Romilda Vane couldn’t confirm why. But that explained why he seemed to have been lobotomized since Hogwarts!

“Me too,” she said quietly. 

“Next stop, Leicester Square!” the automated voice announced.

A poster on the wall of the train caught her eye: Leicester Square had a Christmas market, too! As soon as the tube came to a halt, Hermione pulled Draco off the train. She hadn’t seen his reaction to her admission. She hadn’t really told anyone that she was taking potions for… all that. She was certain that Harry and Ron must have, too. But it felt quite personal to say it out loud, and the one person she never would’ve admitted weakness to was currently moving through a tube station with his hand clasped in hers.

“I thought we were going to South Bank,” he huffed as she raced up the stairs.

She shook her head. “Better idea. Come on!” At the top of the steps, Hermione made a swift right turn and made a beeline for Leicester Square. The sky was mostly dark now and the lights of the city were out. Draco caught up to her and wrapped her hand into the crook of his arm. It really was freezing and neither of them had remembered a particularly warm coat _or_ a warming charm. Hermione leaned into him. 

When the square opened up to them, it was awash in the glow of yellow fairy lights covering a lane of Bavarian shacks, which served as stalls for the vendors. Overhead, lights were strung between buildings, swagged together like fabric made of stars. Draco stopped walking abruptly, jerking Hermione backwards.

“Salazar’s sake, Malfoy--” she stopped as she saw his face. A face of utter delight. She laughed and grabbed his sleeve. “Come on. Don’t get overwhelmed, _now_.” Draco allowed her to drag him to a stand that was serving hot beverages.

“What’s your fancy?” a muggle man asked them. He had a waxed mustache and wore a wonderfully patterned jumper featuring dancing snowmen. He also had the luxury of a portable stove, which kept the little beverage shack quite toasty.

“What are my options?” Draco asked dreamily. The man chuckled.

“Mulled wine, hot cider, hot cocoa, tea, or coffee.”

“I’ll have the mulled wine,” Hermione said. She raised an eyebrow at Draco, who realized that she had produced a wallet and was holding out muggle money towards the man. “My treat.”

“Would I like mulled wine?” he asked her. 

“You’ve never had it before?” she asked. He shook his head. “You should get it. I know you’ve had cocoa and cider before, and this _is_ about new experiences for you.”

“I’m in, then.” Draco accepted a mug of warm mulled wine from the mustachioed muggle; the mug was wooden and faceted with carvings of reindeer. Hermione paid for their drinks and pointed down the lane of little booths, which seemed to be host to a vast array of crafts and gifts. They strolled slowly past each shop; Hermione picked up a wreath made up of dried cinnamon sticks, oranges, and cloves for Mrs. Weasley, a hand-painted ornament for Ginny, and an alpaca-wool scarf for Charlie. Draco pointed out a stall with carved wooden figurines and they mutually agreed that Arthur Weasley would like the one of handy-man Santa holding a toolbox. 

The mulled wine most definitely helped with the chill, but it also meant that Hermione found herself locked arm-in-arm with her companion. He wasn’t drunk, but he also wasn’t expecting to be so… affected by the muggle drink. Hermione sussed out that he hadn’t had anything to eat that day, so they sought out the food stalls. She purchased a bowl of soup, which was served in a bowl made of bread, for them to share. Draco thought it best for them to sit on a bench beside a fountain that was bathed in blue lights because it was “the best vantage point.”

“How many more presents do we have to go?” he asked, spooning a potato into his mouth joyfully.

“Eight,” Hermione sighed. “I had hoped we’d be more successful here, but the stalls are mostly for holiday items. I had hoped to pick up some more… everyday presents, at least for Harry and Ron.” She set down her spoon beside her. “Rest is yours, if you want, I’m stuffed.”

Draco sat back with his bread bowl and ate in silence. Hermione looked over at him. He was gazing upwards at the lights, which were wrapped around star-shaped wreaths and hanging from the lamp posts which flanked the square.

“Have you had your fill of muggle Christmas?” she asked. A smile filled his face but he didn’t look at her. He shook his head.

“Have _you_ gotten more comfortable with my presence?” he asked.

Hermione cleared her throat. “I think so.”

“Good enough for me,” he said.

“I admit that I’m exhausted, but… do you want to do this again tomorrow? Since I have more to buy.” she asked quickly.

Draco sat up and nodded. He patted her hands, which were clasped on her lap. “But let me buy you breakfast. You treated me tonight, and I believe in some give-and-take.”

“It’s a date,” she said. 

“Good.” He smiled at her and she shivered. He put his arm around her shoulders. “Can I walk you home?”

“No, but… I’ll meet you right here. Nine am sharp tomorrow. Alright?” She looked up at him. They were practically nose-to-nose.

“Alright,” he murmured. He released her and Hermione stood. She held up a hand in farewell. Draco beamed at her and she couldn’t help but smile back. As she fell asleep that night, Hermione wondered how long he sat there after she left… either watching her walk away, or looking up at the twinkling lights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for any British anachronisms... I do my best to Brit-pick ahead of time, but I'm sure there are little things I miss!


	3. Solidarity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breakfast and breaking down boundaries with Draco Malfoy.

She found him as she had left him the very next day, seated on the bench in front of the statue of Shakespeare in Leicester Square. This time, he had a take-away cup in one hand, a book in the other, a green tartan scarf draped over his woolen coat, and a muggle style flat-topped fedora perched jauntily on his head. He was a Christmas card. He was also tapping his italian boots impatiently. She was only a few minutes late.

Hermione had chosen a warmer coat for the day’s excursion--a belted wool cloak, which was lined in flannel--and a lovely burgundy beret Molly Weasley had given to her last year, which she had never had any particular inclination to wear, prior. Until now, when having breakfast with Witch Weekly’s recently crowned ‘Most Fashionable Bachelor Under 40’. She had changed her outfit approximately seven times that morning.

“Malfoy,” she said with a wave. He sat up straight and waved the hand that held the book. She smiled.

He stood, holding out the book to her. “Morning, Granger,” he said. “It’s nothing--” He waved his hand at the book as she took it; the book had no discernable title on the cover, but it was wrapped in green canvas and fraying at the corners.. “A book I enjoy. In exchange for yesterday, and for humoring me.” Draco put his hands in his pockets and swayed back on his heels. He looked suddenly nervous and cleared his throat. “Forgive me--you look lovely. How are you? Ready to cross eight more names off of your list? I’ve chosen a little tavern nearby for breakfast--it’s themed like ‘Around the World in Eighty Days’, apparently they’re known for their salmon cakes. I am quite fond of salmon. If that is amenable to you, of course. I am comfortable with anything.” He didn’t look comfortable, however--he looked sweaty waiting for Hermione to say something, anything.

Hermione covered a laugh with a gloved hand. “That will be fine,” she said simply. She put the book into her bag and Draco gestured for them to walk. He took a sip of his drink but his hands were shaking.

“Are you all right?” Hermione asked, touching his arm.

“Me? Oh--yes. Yes, I think perhaps I’ve had too much caffeine. I think I’m liable to disapparate involuntarily,” he said, scratching his head. His cheeks were pink. He tossed his half-full cup into the nearest waste bin.

“Just hang on to me,” she chuckled. She took his arm and he tensed. “Is this all right? Too familiar?”

“No, no. I’m fine,” he said quickly. “Consider everything I do or say for the next… five hours completely normal, unless I start hovering.”

“Noted,” Hermione said. He glanced down at her and the corner of his mouth quirked up. 

Draco lead her around the block. He hummed soft approval at every storefront holiday display they passed; his favorite decorations seemed to feature greenery, with silver and gold as the main theme (which came as no surprise to Hermione), but he also loved anything that involved fake snow. He scoffed at animatronic animals and anything that blinked or flashed. It was quite entertaining to watch him take in the explosion of muggle holiday accoutrement, but somewhat puzzling--had he not experienced seven years of Hogwarts Christmasses, trips to Hogsmeade… snow-covered castle walls were so much grander than a smoggy city Christmas. But Draco Malfoy seemed to be affected by it, and who was she to question it? 

Or question why her childhood bully was taking her to breakfast. Or why she had dreamed the night prior about sitting in front of a fireplace, burning cedar logs and drinking hot cider with a faceless man who wore loafers.

“So… I hear that you’re working in Anthropology at Oxford,” Hermione said. “If the tabloids are to be believed.”

“Something like that,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I spend most of my days with my head buried in texts that would disintegrate if I sneezed. Ancient runes, spells, and curse-breaking.”

“So you’re just… on holiday this week, or…” She cleared her throat. “I mean, instead of working frantically three days before Christmas on a time-sensitive Saint Nicholas-related nordic curse?”

“Ha! Yes,” he laughed. “I usually take two weeks around Christmas off for various and sundry things. I had originally intended to disappear to Mallorca, given my recent broken engagement.” Draco turned them down Bear street; the wind gusted through the corridor of buildings and he clutched his hat. “Are you warm enough?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” she said, squeezing his arm tighter as a shiver ran down her back. 

“And why aren’t you solving all the Ministry’s problems right this second?” he asked. “I thought you were the super star of Muggle relations?”

“Was,” she emphasized. Hermione pulled the neck of her cloak closed and they power-walked out of the brisk wind. Draco peered down at her but she didn’t elaborate any further. She looked away.

“Nearly there,” Draco murmured. “I bet we can cut through this way.” He steered her around a patch of ice, and they diverted through a small alley of shops. The lane was too narrow for muggle automobiles and it was paved in cobblestones, which flowed in a water-like pattern down the street, lapping at the step of every doorway. Each shop had a hanging sign over the door, and each one was uniquely carved or painted to suit the contents of the shop. Draco slowed down. This wasn’t  _ just  _ a street of shops… it was a street full of one kind of shop in particular.

“Merlin’s ghost,” Hermione breathed. She looked up at him and they shared a moment of revelation. “Books?”

“All of them, Granger,” he chuckled. “Look.” He pointed to the window of the shop with a cat on its’ sign. “Books for children here, military books over there, puzzle books there--”

“Ooh! Antiques!” Hermione raced over to a window featuring old books with gold leaf on the pages, some with buckles and latches holding the covers shut, and all very, very old. Hermione tried the door, but it was locked. “The sign says it doesn’t open until 10:30,” she said.

Draco held out his arm to her again with a beaming smile. “We’ll come right back after breakfast. I’ve been meaning to pop into a muggle antique shop for some time, you know.”

Hermione took his arm again and they practically skipped through the lane at the promise of returning to every book shop once they had had their fill of salmon cakes. 

They next found themselves in a small booth in the tavern for said breakfast, knee-to-knee, chattering away behind a silencing charm. “So, Oxford?” Hermione said, sipping her tea. 

“Mmm. I’ve been living there for about three years,” he said. “It’s a good cover for the research ministry, with unlimited access to muggle texts that have significance to our work.”

“You work for the Ministry?” she asked in surprise.

“Why do you sound so shocked?” he laughed.

“I assumed by your desire to avoid passing through the Ministry that meant… well, I admit I had assumed you were avoiding our world as much as you can,” she said. Instead, he had been studying admittedly one of Hermione’s favorite subjects in the most prestigious muggle university in England, working for the very wizarding institution that had once tried his parents for war crimes… It boggled the mind. Not that he ought to be isolated away from other wizards, or that he in some way deserved it (he had been the most vocal defector after the war, going so far as to testify against dedicated Death Eaters in the infamous Trial of the Twenty, and earning a medal from the Minister). It just seemed like…never-ending punishment, to have to publicly admit all that you had done, that your family had done, to cripple the wizarding world  _ and _ remain a public figure that tabloids scrambled to either debase or deify, depending on the way the wind was blowing. 

“For… self-preservation, or something,” she said, finally.

Draco shook his head and took a bite of his food. “Why would Witch Weekly feature me if I had been?” He shrugged.

Hermione was quite embarrassed, now. “They featured Lockhart in a cover story two months ago and he’s been dead at least five years…”

“Yeah, in an article about which iconic wizards had the most attractive statues,” Draco laughed. Hermione couldn’t help herself--she covered her face and giggled.

“You must read tabloids fairly often!”

“Call it vanity, Granger. I have to know what they’re saying about me! In case they’re right,” he said. “You know, about the parade of models I apparently take to clubs, or the way I insist on running into burning buildings to save puppies.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “They featured me once, you know!”

“Oh really?” He raised an eyebrow. “In the post-war Golden Trio craze?”

“Yes! I had to stay at Hogwarts for six months after the rebuild because there were reporters posted outside my flat constantly. And everything they wrote was wildly inaccurate, but  _ especially _ trashy in the Weekly, which was then rehashed in the Prophet--some absolute bollocks about me being flirty with professors--AND they charmed me thinner in the photograph.” Hermione stabbed her fork into her toast.

Draco reached across the table and put his hand on her arm. “That is horrid!”

“They do it to all the witches,” Hermione shrugged, though she continued to murder the bread before her. “Curious, though, that you look exactly the same in person.” She looked at him from under her eyelashes and popped a square of dry toast into her mouth.

“Ferrety?” He asked with a wink. Hermione laughed, and he seemed pleased with himself. “So…” he began, pushing his empty plate away and leaning back. “You  _ were _ working in Muggle Relations. Now what?”

Hermione took a long drink of water. “How much time have you got?”

“All day,” he reminded her, crossing his arms expectantly.

Hermione sighed. “I’ve only left this week,” she said. “I mentored my replacement with the intention of leaving sometime in the spring, but she is quite capable and she’s ready now, so I stepped down on Monday.”

“Good feeling?”

“Um. It’s a relief,” she agreed. “I’ll probably always feel somewhat like I failed… and you can imagine how that makes me feel, given how I was in school, um.” She looked down at her plate and pushed some potatoes around. “But it’s for the best.”

“You don’t have to talk about it, if you’re uncomfortable,” he said gently.

She shrugged. “There’s loads of reasons why I needed to go, honestly. For one thing, my parents are muggles, so… I was constantly reminded of all that. I’m usually quite zen about the whole thing; it’s sad, but it’s just my reality that they can’t be in my life. But every single day, I was meeting with muggles and smoothing over magical mishaps, and confronting what’s left of the anti-muggle ideology within the Ministry itself...”

“It would be not unlike my teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts to a bunch of smug, blond Slytherins,” he offered.

“In a way,” she agreed with a small smile. “And I’m half muggle! So I’m having to work alongside wizards and witches who look down on muggles, talk about them like they’re morons, but then ‘oh, but not  _ you _ Hermione, not  _ your  _ parents.’ It’s toxic. And  _ then _ the holidays roll around and London explodes with decorations like one massive, smoky snow globe and all people can talk about in Muggle Relations is how ‘excessive’ muggles are, how wasteful, how sentimental and blind they are to real problems… but never once taking the time to explore muggle spaces or understand  _ why _ they take such delight in holidays. Ugh!”

“Hypocrites.”

“Yes. Exactly.” Hermione finished her tea and propped her head on her hand. “And I won’t be part of it.”

Draco held out his hand to her. She set her hand in his shakily and he squeezed. He gave a look of sincere regret and she braced herself for what would surely be a well-intentioned comment, but pitying. “Too much caffeine, huh?” he said finally, patting her still-shaking hand. Hermione couldn’t help but laugh. He kept doing that. Kept making her laugh when she was feeling uneasy, and giving her something to hold onto. She pushed away a sense of unease that came naturally with being in his presence, especially because he was so obviously different than when they were children, and allowed herself to take comfort in his concern.

“Can I admit something somewhat embarrassing?” he asked, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles.

“Mmhm.”

“I sort of love muggle holidays.” He cringed saying it out loud.

“I had some idea,” she smiled.

“I don’t dwell on why,” he said, “But they’re just better. Nobody used a wand to make the lights sparkle, nothing is spectral… it’s practical effects! They make things look magical without magical intervention. Made more so by the way they collectively agree on it's magic. I like that.”

“But you don’t  _ dwell _ on it,” she teased.

“No, of course not.” Draco pulled out his pocket watch. “It’s eleven-o-four. Shall we?” Hermione nodded. Draco cancelled the silencing charm and hopped up to settle their bill with the bartender. Hermione quite liked this tavern; little models of hot air balloons hung from the ceiling and all the drinks had quirky names like “The Anatolian Secret” and “Treasure from the Adriatic.” It made perfect sense why it had appealed to Draco’s particular brand of things that seem posh but offer richer experiences beneath. 

Draco returned to their table and helped her on with her coat. He took something out of his pocket.

“Here,” he said, holding out a small box. She looked at him quizzically, but opened the small gift. It was an ornament in the shape of a small, papier mache balloon with the words ‘Happy Christmas, Fogg’s Tavern’ painted on the basket. “For your tree.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” she gasped.

“They’re practically giving them away, Granger,” he smiled. 

“I don’t have a tree to put it on, but I’ll hang it in a window or something.” She tucked the box into her bag beside the book he gave her earlier. “Thank you.”

He stopped abruptly. “You don’t have a tree?”

She shook her head. “My flat is small, and my cat would probably destroy a real tree, and fake trees are so expensive. I haven’t had one since I was a child.”

“We’ll fix that,” he said. He turned on his heel and strode for the door. Hermione just stared after him. When he realized she hadn’t followed, he turned back and beckoned to her. “Three days to go, come on!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Bookshop-lined street based on Cecil Court, which is not solely filled with book shops in reality, but many!  
> *Tavern based on Mr. Fogg's Tavern, a delightful real place.


	4. Symmetry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They bond over books and Draco tries ice skating.

Maybe it was strange to love the must of old books. Maybe it was strange to run your fingers down the rigid spines of tomes that had been printed several hundred years ago. Maybe only the strangest people stood, back to back, trying to get one another to guess the title of an old book based on the first line… Strange seemed to be the order of the day, anyhow, so neither Hermione or Draco bothered with some semblance of ‘normal’ bookshop behavior. The lane of bookshops was turning out to be a corridor of delights.

The antique bookshop was their favorite so far, though Hermione had gotten lost for a while in the depths of children’s chapter books in Cheshire’s Children’s Books and reemerged with a book about children who time travel in a treehouse for Luna.

Draco scoffed his way through the military history book shop, to the dismay of the owner, but Hermione made apologies for him (she made up a truth-adjacent excuse that he was a veteran and dealing with some PTSD) after he had stormed out of the shop and calmed him down by forcing him to do crossword puzzles with her in Labyrinth Puzzle Books. Which, he outright admitted was a source of consolation to him, even if she did guess more words correctly than he did. She bought him two different books of puzzles (including the one they had littered with incorrect guesses at Muggle phrases and a book of Extremely Difficult Sudoku, because she liked the way his ears reddened when he admitted to loving the game).

But now, in the antique book shop, Reddingate, they were in a playful competition.

“You will absolutely never guess this one,” he laughed. “ _ ‘He was birthed in the flicker of a dying star, and everyday thence he grew more eager to burn.’ _ ”

“Oh bollocks,” she breathed. “Um… I have no idea! Is it… early 1900’s?”

“Yes, but not too early.”

“How many words?”

“Seven.”

“Are you serious?” she laughed. “Is one of them Satan?”

Draco turned around abruptly. “Are you peeking over my shoulder?” He held the book behind his back.

“Was I right?” She asked, lunging for the book. Draco dodged out of the way. “Let me see!”

“Guess another word and I’ll let you see it!” He laughed, spinning out of her reach.

“Life?” She asked, trying to squeeze behind him.

“Nope!” He held the book over his head. Hermione grabbed his shoulder and hung on his elbow to try and pull the book out of his hands. He wound his arm around her waist and lifted her off her feet. “Not so fast, witch,” he murmured. “You still owe me a guess. Who knew the Brightest Witch of Her Age would resort to physical force?”

“Ugh! You wanker,” she laughed, trying to wriggle out of his grasp. “Is one of them ‘death’?”

Draco immediately dropped her and sighed dramatically. He handed over the book in defeat and kneeled. “You have won, my lady. Your prize.”

Hermione cackled and took the red-bound tome in hand, which was decorated in tarnished gold lettering. The title read: _ The Sober Death of Satan’s Underworld Kingdom _ . It was written in 1913, apparently by a nun named Sister Mary Margaretta from an ‘unnamed abbey’. It was, as far as she could gather, some sort of farcical cautionary tale. “Merlin, this is barmy,” she whispered, flipping through the pages. Draco stood with glee, peering over her shoulder at the stamped illustrations, which depicted rather generic images of Satan posing among the ruins of a medieval castle… it was ridiculous and amazing.

“I dare you to give it to the Weasel for Christmas,” Draco said with a laugh when they reached a particular chapter, entitled ‘The Freckled and the Damned’.

“Not on your life, Malfoy,” she said. “But I’ll buy it for  _ someone _ .” He threw his head back and shook his head. She marched to the register and set down the prize. The shopkeeper appeared to be asleep in a chair behind the wooden counter--Hermione attempted to rouse him, but to no avail. He snored away. Hermione counted out the change on the counter--ten pounds--and wrote a note on an old piece of register tape:

_ For The Sober Death of Satan’s Underworld Kingdom, 10 pounds. Happy Christmas. HG. _

She stuffed the book in her bag and Draco quirked his head. “Um, excuse me, Madam, I believe that the book was purchased for  _ me. _ ”

“If you’re a very good boy, maybe you’ll find it wrapped under your Christmas tree,” she said haughtily. “Come now, Malfoy… I’d like to pop into the travel bookshop.”

Draco tipped his hat at her and followed her out onto the street. “How many more gifts left on your list?”

“Eight,” she said, leading him towards The Blue Door travel book shop.

“Seven, I thought,” he said, holding the door for her. Hermione shook her head. 

“I forgot someone.” She side-stepped him but paused in the doorway, blocking him from entering. “Say--would you do me a favor?”

“That depends,” he said with a mischievous smile.

“Go back to the Cheshire and pick up that book in the window about snowmen?” She fished in her bag for a few pound notes and handed them over. “For Bill and Fleur’s little boy, I forgot him.”

Draco nodded. “Of course,” he agreed. He looked at her strangely for a prolonged moment, studying her face and then looking down at the toes of her short boots.

“Meet you outside,” she said softly, touching his shoulder. He grasped her hand and kissed it swiftly, before turning on his heel and second-guessing the action. Hermione removed her glove like it was burning and rubbed her hand, but try as she might, she could not remember what that strange moment had felt like--it had  _ just  _ happened, but it might have been a dream.

Hermione browsed the rows of books on travel and picked a beautiful book that she knew he would love--a book on Mallorca, Barcelona, and great historical sites of Spain. Because he liked beautiful things. That was a fact that had become increasingly clear to her. He appreciated muggle history and culture, too. He longed for the seaside… well, in her romantic imagination, that was his design on Spain, anyhow. When he visited at Christmas, he would have a good guide with lush still photographs.

She stopped dead at the end of the aisle, just feet from the register.

What was she doing? Besides brainlessly wandering all over London with someone she has no business being around. Buying him Christmas presents. Clinging to his arm like she’ll float into the sky if she lets go. Here they were, bungeeing each other all around London by the arm, trying to catch up with each other… emotionally, and physically.

She breathed in slowly and pinched the bridge of her nose. Whatever. It didn’t matter--he was going to Mallorca for Christmas so she wouldn’t be seeing him much longer, and for Merlin’s sake--she deserved some distraction! He was handsome. He was very nice to be around. If he were anyone else, she would be open to it without reservations. Well, not  _ anyone _ . If he weren’t  _ himself _ and he hadn’t called her names as a child… hurtful names… she scratched her arm absently over the place where she used to bear a lettered scar.

Ugh. 

Hermione hugged the book to her chest and sighed.

A knock sounded on the front window and she looked up. Draco Malfoy was beaming at her; he held up a gift bag and pointed at it in triumph. He held a thumbs up. She waved absently and quickly purchased the book before she could talk herself out of it again.

She exited the shop and walked down the lane, careless of whether or not he was following. Draco skipped to catch up with her. “Hey, I got the snowman book. It’s quite adorable.”

“Thank you,” she said softly. She shivered in the chill of the day and he wrapped his arm around her shoulders automatically. She stepped out of his grasp. “I’m alright, thanks,” she said. She strode for Charing Cross Road but had no real direction in mind. She suddenly needed to walk. Maybe get away from him for just a second and think.

Draco followed her silently for about five blocks before he realized she was distraught. He grabbed her elbow and stopped abruptly in a doorway which blocked them from the wind. “You’re upset,” he said softly, leaning against the wall and shielding her from view of the street. If she needed to be upset, at least she wouldn’t have to have people looking at her. He rubbed her arm. “Tell me why.”

Hermione gripped the front of his jacket.

“How long ago did Pansy break things off?” She whispered. His face softened from concern to a gentle smile.

“Six months,” he said. 

Hermione closed her eyes and breathed out slowly. “Okay.”

“Yeah?” He grasped her chin and tilted her head up so she was looking at him. “Are you sure that’s okay?”

Hermione allowed herself to look into the depths of his eyes--to study the truth in them. If there was any inkling in them that she wasn’t safe, she didn’t see it. “No,” she admitted. “I’m not even sure  _ what _ I’m sure of.”

“You’re adorable when you’re flustered,” he said. “And I’m very sure of that.”

She blushed and looked away, but she took his hand. “This is bizarre, right? It’s weird.”

“Yes. Now. Do you want to go ice skating?” he asked. He pulled her down the street. 

“We probably ought to talk about this,” she protested.

“I’m trying to distract you from overthinking,” he said, “and our objective is not to make you upset, our objective is to immerse ourselves in the ultimate muggle Christmas experience. I’ve never been ice skating, so let’s make our way towards Somerset House and hurtle ourselves around a rink on metal blades for a while.”

Hermione allowed herself to be pulled down the street, hand in hand with this very insistent, very nicely smelling anomalous wizard. After all--she had agreed to an arrangement with him, and he  _ had _ helped her find at least one gift… it was only fair. Maybe it would help her make better sense of her feelings.

Or… put her on… thin ice. Hermione rolled her eyes. She skipped up to his pace and Draco put their joined hands into his coat pocket.

To say that Draco was bad at ice skating would be unfair--like scoring a grade-schooler on his skill at brain surgery--but he wasn’t… stable. Like a baby deer. He had to have his arm around Hermione AND one hand on the wall to stay upright and he  _ still _ fell right on his arse about five times. But he was determined to have a good time, and it distracted Hermione from her reservations. 

Hermione, on the other hand, was fairly good at it. Enough that Draco was beginning to get annoyed. 

“I’d have thought ice skating was at least as easy as Quidditch,” he grumbled.

“If it were, you’d be good at it,” she needled with a small smile. Draco looked down at her. They leaned against the outer wall and watch experienced skaters whirl around the rink without pause.

He nudged her. “I never saw  _ you _ on a broom.”

“And you never will,” she said. “We don’t have to continue skating, you know. It’s alright to admit that it’s not for you.”

Draco gave her a hard determined look. “If I agree to stop skating, will you explain to me what’s been bothering you? Or shall I drag you around this rink indefinitely?”

She turned her back to the rink and leaned on her forearms. “I imagine you can guess. You’re smart, Draco.”

He mimicked her pose, sliding his arm between hers and into her clasped hands. He leaned into her side. “You, madam, have never called me that before.”

“We can talk about  _ that _ when you’re back from Mallorca.” For good measure, she briefly leaned her head against his shoulder.

“I don’t know that I  _ am _ going,” he admitted. “Plans could change.”

She looked up at him. “Really?”

He nodded once. “There are three days until Christmas,  _ Hermione _ ,” he murmured against her temple. 

“You’ve never called me that before, sir.” She squeezed his hand.

Draco shrugged. “Anything can happen.”

“Like? Tea?”

He chuckled. “If you like.”

“I like,” she confirmed. 

“Good.” Draco held onto the wall and side-stepped all the way to the rink’s entrance. Hermione giggled watching him totter along. She waited until he turned expectantly from his safety on land and glided smoothly to him, arms outstretched like a pro. Draco rolled his eyes. He held out his hands to her with a faux scowl on his face. “Come on, woman.”

He talked her into a quiet dinner at The Leaky Cauldron for their last excursion of the day--for many reasons, but mostly because he wanted to give her the opportunity to talk candidly and privately. She had a feeling he had some questions for  _ her _ , too.

The place was bustling but dimly lit enough that they could slip in through the back one at a time without attracting notice; first Draco, then Hermione, right into the snug with a nod to Tom. Draco sat on one side and Hermione slid in beside him. Tom brought them a pot of tea. 

“So,” he said softly, clinking his cup against hers. She did not look at him, but she smiled and sipped. Sitting next to him felt less like facing down a firing squad, and his cologne swirled around her pleasantly, so it was rather more comfortable.

“Mmhm. I’m tired, I must say. Eventful day.” She yawned into her hand.

“Can I ask you a personal question?” he asked.

“I suppose.”

He leaned away from her and pulled his wand from the inside of his jacket, setting it on the table. She mimicked his motion and set hers beside it with a raised brow. 

“Seems easier to talk about things… if we’ve called a truce, so to speak,” he explained. He folded his hands together over his lap and looked down, as if the questions he had to ask were printed on the knee of his trousers. “When did you last have a date?” he asked. 

Hermione coughed lightly. “Um. Well… it has been a bit.”

“I don’t mean to pry--”

“Might as well say,” she said. “I’ve had a few short relationships after Ron and I parted ways eight years ago, one of which ended last year. It only lasted a few months, he was a nice Muggle doctor named Terrence.”

“Ah.” He sipped his tea and sat back, as if that satisfied him entirely. Hermione narrowed her eyes at him.

“Ah?”

“I had some concern that you were secretly married and that’s why you seem so determined to be hot and cold when  _ someone  _ is paying you particular attention,” he said.

She turned toward him fully. “Is that what you’re doing?” she asked directly. He squared his posture with hers.

“Yes,” he said firmly. 

“Why?”

He leaned on the table so he could consider her better--closer, and with more stability. “Because…” he stopped. He held out a hand for her left arm. He pulled up her sleeve, but there was nothing there. He traced the skin with his thumb. “I am drawn to you, Granger.”

“We have always had a… symmetry, haven’t we? Even when it was through a glass darkly.” She said. She poked at his arm where she knew he bore his own mark of war. He smiled sadly and cuffed his jumper. The skull and snake were faded like a bad prison tattoo. “Mine faded when she died,” Hermione said.

“Mine’s less grotesque every year,” he said. “Not true of all Death Eaters… the few who still subscribe to the old mentality have crystal-clear marks, as if they took the oath this morning.”

Hermione folded the fabric of his jumper back down over his mark and he breathed out in relief. 

“I cannot believe that the first time I’ve seen you in twelve was  _ yesterday afternoon _ \--standing in Covent Garden like none of  _ that _ ever happened. It stirred something in me that has been there since you punched me in the nose. So.” He smiled bashfully and sipped his tea.

“Why are you in London?” Hermione asked. She didn’t want to touch that admission, just yet.

“Eager to get rid of me already?” he teased.

“No, actually. But I’m surprised that you have nothing on your plate,” she said. “Why drop everything to spend a few days learning about muggles from me while I finish my  _ Christmas shopping _ , of all pedestrian things?”

“You say that as if you’re a chore,” he said. “I had no plans the last few days,  _ honestly _ , other than retrieving the ring from Covent Garden and speaking to my travel agent about Spain.”

“I’ll pretend I believe that,” she said, sitting back again with a smirk. She let him off the hook, temporarily. “What do you do on a normal Christmas holiday?” she asked.

He tapped his chin. “For the last five years I’ve had to endure the Parkinson’s for Christmas Eve, and then visited my mother in St. Mungo’s on Christmas Day.”

“Where does the shawarma usually come into play?” 

He laughed. “Well remembered! Christmas Eve, after Pansy goes home to her flat, drunk on a mixture of absinthe and firewhiskey.” 

“Woof,” she breathed. 

“Yes, well. I’m not sentimental anyway--”

“Liar!” Hermione protested. She pushed his arm. “The fact that you’re here right now means that you’re a sucker.”

“I know when I’ve lost an argument,” he said with a laugh. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

“I’ve promised Ginny to help her wrap gifts,” she said, regretfully. “And I’ve got to help Molly with her selection of pies for Christmas day.  _ And _ figure out what I’m giving my remaining seven people.”

“Perhaps a day apart is best,” he said under his breath, as if he didn’t mean for her to hear it. He was thinking so hard that a vein popped in his forehead. He was loathe to admit the panic that filled him, but his face betrayed some of it.

Hermione looked suddenly mischievous. “I have an idea.”

“I think I’m scared,” he said. He certainly looked it.

Hermione took his hand again and squeezed it between her own. “Come with me to the Weasley’s for Christmas Eve.”

He paled and ran a hand through his hair. “That’s not a good idea,” he said quickly.

“It’s no crazier than what you’ve done the last five years, and there will be  _ less _ animosity towards you at this party than what you’re used to… once I speak to Ron about the idea and convince him by… whatever means I can think of, perhaps even blackmail…” Hermione placed her hand on his chest. “Please? I want you there. As a… friend?”

Draco sighed and touched her chin. “Let me think about it?”

“Alright,” she sighed. “Walk me home?”

“I’d be delighted.”

They bundled up tight and Hermione dug in her bag for something. She pulled out two small pouches, which looked to be hand-crocheted. She tapped each one with her wand and they warmed immediately. She handed them to Draco. “Put these in your pockets on your way… wherever you’re staying. It’s too cold tonight.”

“The Waldorf,” he said, tucking the warming pouches into his coat pockets.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Somehow I forgot that you’re a rich toff,” she said.

“I’m not  _ perfect _ ,” he chuckled. “And why didn’t you use these before, woman? We’ve been freezing our arses off all over London!”

“Your arse could  _ use  _ some ice after the licking you got on the rink today,” she said, opening the door to the snug. He stuck his tongue out at her. “Besides, it gave me a perfectly good reason to snuggle up.” She turned away and left the little room. Draco followed a few minutes later. 

He took her as far as her apparition point with the greatest care to drag out their walk by forcing her to stop at every interesting holiday display. She didn’t seem to mind so much.  Once they reached their destination, Hermione pulled him under the doorway of the launderette that would serve as their parting point. It was just down an alley, so it was hidden from pedestrians and passersby.

“I believe you have something of mine in your bag,” Draco said, leaning against the frame of the doorway.

“I won’t give it to you,” she said smugly. “You have to come to Christmas Eve to receive your presents.”

“Oh, they’re  _ plural _ , now?”

“You won’t know if you don’t come!” she said. She leaned up and kissed his cheek confidently. Hermione tried to step away and make her sly escape, but he grabbed her elbow and pulled her back to him. “You must stop doing that,” she murmured. “I’m not in peril.”

“There’s mistletoe,” he whispered inches from her face.

She looked up. “No there isn’t!’

“Somewhere in this blasted city, there is,” he said. He kissed her softly. Hermione pressed her lips against his and sighed happily as he wound his arms around her waist for the second time that day. He was quite good at it--proficient even, the way his tongue worried the seam of her lips and he hummed his approval. He groaned at the thought of stopping, but he pulled away. He stroked her cheek. “I won’t be able to bear a day without your company, now that I know what I’ve been missing.”

“You’ve done it for twelve years,” Hermione said, carding a hand through his hair. “What’s one more day?”

He groaned, pressing his forehead to hers. “Owl me tomorrow?”

“Might do,” she said. “If I have time.”

“Cheeky,” he smiled, kissing her again. Hermione tugged on his hair.

“Excuse me, I have to breathe,” she laughed.

“No you don’t.” Draco dipped her dramatically and attacked her face with little pecks. 

Hermione cackled. “Is this how I die?”

Draco peered down at her with a silly, self-satisfied grin. “What a way to go, though.” He stood her upright and set about straightening her cloak. “Fine,” he sighed. “If I must let you go, at least I’ll have something to liven up my dreams tonight.”

“You’re too much,” she said, laughing. She nudged his nose with hers and leaned forward as if to kiss him--and then disapparated before their lips touched, leaving a shocked snake behind. She pressed her back to her front door and laughed at the thought of the dazed look on his face.


	5. Spilled

Hermione awoke to a tap of tiny talons on her bedroom window. A sleek, white owl sat on the sill just outside the antique glass with a scroll tied to its leg and a small basket clasped in its beak. Hermione blearily stumbled to the window and opened the sash. The owl allowed her to take its basket. She offered it a treat in exchange for the scroll, an apricot dandie, which was the favorite of her absent-minded owl, Demetrius. _This_ owl was so elegant, it gave her a complex. Hermione unrolled the scroll while the beautiful owl ate its treat.

_Granger,_

_Sue me--I can’t help myself. Here’s a spot of breakfast for you, as well as a pair of deliciously soft socks knitted by my house elf (Ermina, she is well compensated and practically raised me, don’t get your knickers in a twist), and a coin that will warm when I’m thinking of you. If you pick it up now, I imagine it will be warm already. Enjoy your day._

_I miss you. I’m pathetic. I can’t help it._

_Please let me know when we can go tree shopping--I will go at midnight, tonight, I don’t care. I will free up my time for you._

_\--The Ferret_

Hermione cupped her cheeks as they turned warm. Good gods… how was she going to get through the day?

Yes--she had immensely enjoyed the last few days, more than she ever could have _dreamed_ … but it still felt like one! Hermione couldn’t fathom how they had come together by such random happenstance and arrived here--sending and receiving tokens of affection. Bearing distance. Sending tokens. _Three days_ , she thought. Three days and she was barmy for a man who found her entertaining and liked all the same things… shouldn’t she be elated to receive such attention?

Instead, she felt… undeserving? No… just uninteresting. Who would find her weird habits at all alluring? A bookworm homebody with no career and an ancient, molting cat. Crookshanks mewed in such a manner from his padded throne in the corner as to sound murderous.

Still, she unwrapped the ties from the basket and opened one flap. Ermina had outdone herself in terms of the socks (they were green and black cashmere, surely made from butter and clouds), and Draco had assembled a lovely breakfast--hard boiled eggs, toast, berries and jam, and yorkshire pudding, all charmed within their wrappings to remain warm. He had even enclosed them on Malfoy china--that is, white porcelain with green scrollwork, not unlike a celtic knot pattern, which was so decidedly Malfoy as to be unmistakable. It did not look like it came from the Manor. Hermione then wondered if Draco traveled with his own china. She wouldn’t put it past him! Perhaps the breakfast itself was repackaged room service from the Waldorf. Either way, it was thoughtful and… sweet.

She thought better of sending a reply; if Draco really did like her so much… he could wait for a reply. If for no other reason than that she didn’t know _what_ to say, and perhaps having to wait would increase his delight at hearing from her again.

Instead, she dropped the coin in the pocket of her robe (it was indeed warm already) and took small pleasure in the heat of the coin against her skin. By the time she departed for her destination, it would be secured in the back pocket of her trousers. The cashmere socks were like a hug for her feet.

When Hermione arrived at The Burrow that morning, quite satiated by a Malfoy breakfast, she was thrust into the task of wrapping every single small gift that would be stuffed within the stockings of every person in attendance on Christmas Eve. Everything from decks of cards and small dice to balls of yarn and books were fair game. Molly Weasley was out with her husband shopping in Hogsmeade, while Ginny and Harry took charge of the wrapping and pie-baking.

Hermione loved that house; floors stacked upon one another, given to winding staircases and drafty rooms with the most delightful whine through the gutters when the wind blew in from the South. The Burrow was _like_ home, but it was never to be her destined family home… no matter how much the Weasley’s still held her relationship with Ron over her head. Nevermind that they had broken up eight years prior--she had still attended Christmas every year and neither one of them had ever come with a companion. It was an unspoken agreement. They were mature enough to be in the same room, at least.

Which is why Hermione found herself panicking--why had she invited Draco to come, again? Besides being desperate to spend more time in his company. She _knew_ that the Weasley’s would have a hard time accepting him, but… no more than stuffy Slytherins, right? Surely they had all endured enough during the war to see a redemption, and Draco Malfoy had gone above and beyond to fight for the right cause.

So. It would be fine. Wouldn’t it?

“What would your family do if I brought a date tomorrow?” Hermione asked softly, cutting a small square of paper to fit the shape of a toy broom, which rested beside a host of small gifts on the Weasley family kitchen table. Ginny turned towards her slowly with the largest grin on her face, hands covered in flour.

“Are you seeing someone?” Ginny asked, throwing her arms around Hermione’s neck and showering her in pastry. “I have been waiting for this day!” She giggled with such delight--Hermione was getting dizzy from being forcibly jumped up and down.

Hermione tapped on Ginny’s shoulder. “Okay, okay! You’re going to strangle me!” she breathed. Ginny let go enough to study her face.

“You _are_ , aren’t you?”

“It’s very new,” Hermione admitted. Ginny squealed and clapped her hands together, releasing a cloud of particulates into the air.

“What’s going on in there?” Harry called from the den. Hermione covered Ginny’s mouth.

“I stabbed Ginny accidentally with the scissors!” Hermione replied, making it very clear to Ginny that she was _not_ to say a word to her husband. She shook her head desperately and Ginny rolled her eyes. She pulled Hermione’s hand from her mouth.

“You know how I laugh when I’m in pain, darling!” Ginny called back to Harry. Hermione pushed her backwards towards the sink and pinned her in the corner with a pointed finger. “Okay! I won’t tell him!” Ginny conceded.

“I don’t even know if it’s a good idea to bring this… person,” Hermione whispered. Ginny swooned. “Calm down, will you?” Ginny clasped her hands over her mouth and made the sign of locking her lips with an invisible key.

“Who is it?” Ginny asked. “Bonus points if it’s not one of my brothers.”

“No,” Hermione asserted. “No Weasleys are involved.”

“Thank the gods. Witch or Wizard? Or muggle? Terrance, again?” Ginny asked, though she cringed at the mention of Terrance. Ginny had tolerated Terrance but thought him much too serious for Hermione. He didn’t like holding her hand in public. He ate herring for breakfast. He had a collection of blue cardigans. Insufferable, and absolutely unable to fathom the existence of magic.

“Wizard,” Hermione admitted. “Oh, I am already regretting telling you this…” Hermione sat down on the bench beside the kitchen table and put her head in her hands. 

Ginny sat beside her. “Can I guess?” she asked.

“You can try,” Hermione said.

“Your age or older?”

“Why not younger?” Hermione asked.

Ginny scoffed. “Please, you’d never date a man you’d have to mother. That’s not a kink for you.”

“Touche,” Hermione said. “My age.”

“Gryffindor?”

“No.”

Ginny popped up off the bench and punched the air with her fists. “Haha! This is amazing.” She did a little dance and pushed herself up to sit on the counter, directly across from Hermione… who was very much on the verge of death by mortification. “What house, then?”

Hermione sighed. “If you guess right, I’ll confirm--”

“Slytherin.”

Hermione scratched the side of her nose and coughed. “Maybe.”

“Delicious!” Ginny said. “I’m assuming he or she’s successful, of course someone who defected… can’t be Malfoy, he’s been engaged to Parkinson _forever_ , and you’d punch him right in the face if you ever saw him again.” She sighed. “This is difficult, ‘Mione! It’s not Blaise, is it?”

“No,” Hermione laughed. Thank Merlin Ginny didn’t seem to pay attention to the tabloids… now that Hermione was thinking about it, had she ever read a report about Draco breaking up with Pansy? She couldn’t think of a single article… the only reason _she_ knew was because she had _asked_. Hermione had a bad feeling.

“Thank god,” Ginny said. “I had a sexy dream about Blaise after he started playing for the Cannons and I don’t think I could ever look him in the eye.” She shuddered in a way that made Hermione very glad to never have met Blaise out in the world. “Besides, I don’t think quidditch players are your type.”

“I much prefer intellectuals,” Hermione said. _And_ former _quidditch players, specifically blond-haired seekers._ She took a particular kind of glee watching the gears in Ginny’s head turn but no solid answer coming to her. Ginny sighed.

“I give up,” Ginny said. “Do you think I would like this person?”

“Well,” Hermione coughed. “I do. So.”

“That’s not a ‘yes’.”

“It’s not a ‘no’ either… I just… happen to know that this person has reservations about being at someone else’s family gathering, and… I don’t think Ron would stand for it, in this case.”

“Ronald has trouble with you dating _anyone_ , ‘Mione.”

“Yes, but… in _this_ case…” Hermione rubbed her cheeks. “I don’t want to ruin Christmas, but _he_ really deserves to have a nice holiday and… I don’t want to spend _my_ holiday away from you all… and I’m probably making a bigger deal about this than I should. Maybe I just shouldn’t come at all.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ginny said gently, wrapping her arms around Hermione. “We will learn to love whomever you choose to love. You have to know that.”

Hermione breathed out slowly. “I do. I just… I know.” 

Ginny kissed her cheek and left the topic alone. She could see when her dearest friend was distraught and there was a line between teasing and torture. Still… Hermione barely knew Draco Malfoy, the man whom had sent her breakfast this very morning. But she liked him. Oh… did she ever.

Could he participate in this event without discomfort? Hermione thought through it. Being accepted at the door by Molly… with… an uncomfortable handshake. Or… Draco would kiss her hand? Or hug her. No, he’d hug _Hermione_ to his side and try to be inoffensive. And then dinner. Sitting beside Hermione, across from Ginny and Harry, at the end where they could make a break for it in the event of an outburst from Ronald. But then… the Christmas present exchange. Upwards of _three_ hours of present opening! And not a present of his own to open! Hermione sighed.

It would not do at all. Surely he would see that.

“Hermione. Jean. Granger,” Harry said evenly, from the other room. “What in Godric Gryffindor’s name is this?”

“What’s what?” Hermione said. She was mid-way through wrapping a plasticine tiara for the smallest of Bill and Fleur’s brood.

Harry appeared in the doorway to the kitchen looking like he had been slapped. He held up a newspaper and opened it with a flourish so she could see the front page... Which was, quite artfully, displaying an array of images depicting the back of her head… as she snogged the life out of Draco Malfoy, heir of Slytherin, and ‘Betrothed of Pansy Parkinson’ in the doorway of an unassuming launderette, with the phrase “FAIRYTALE OR FARCE?” splashed over their heads.

Ginny snatched the paper out of her husband’s hands and Hermione slowly lay back on the bench, hands over her face. She let out a low, long groan, which was the sound of her soul leaving her body.

“Oh my gods! Oh, my sweet Slytherin gods!” Ginny screamed. “You look hot, Hermione!”

“Kill me!” Hermione exclaimed.

“No, this is great!”

“This--” Hermione gestured to the paper, “--could not be worse for our tenuous connection!”

“Doesn’t look tenuous,” Ginny growled, turning the paper sideways.

“Shut up!”

Harry sat down beside Hermione and patted her knees. “Hermione. Be honest. Are you… _seeing_ M-Malfoy?” he stuttered.

Hermione sat up. “Yes,” she said plainly, pointing to the paper in Ginny’s hands. “Obviously, Harry.”

Harry shut his eyes. “Ron is going to lay an egg.”

“Maybe he doesn’t read the paper.”

“Everyone else does,” Ginny snorted. “Lavender certainly does.”

“What’s she got to do with this?” Hermione asked, looking between Harry and Ginny.

“You know he’s bringing her to Christmas,” Harry said. 

Hermione’s look darkened. “I did not.”

“I’m going to clobber him!” Harry said. “He was supposed to tell you, Hermione, I swear.”

“Well then!” Hermione said, standing. She ripped the paper out of Ginny’s hands and looked the article over. “If Draco decides he wants to come--which he has not confirmed or denied--then Ronald can find out when we show up! As for the rest of the world…” She stopped, seeing the way Draco smiled against her lips in the photo on endless loop. “I’m glad they know. I’m not ashamed! He is… so different,” she insisted. “And why should I care that the… first time… we ever kissed is being witnessed by every witch or wizard with vision keen enough to see their Prophets this morning? Why should that bother me? Because it doesn’t. Because... Because!”

Hermione stormed out of the kitchen and into the living room, where she settled herself on the window seat behind a wall made of scandalous pages. She scoured the article (which was written by none other than Rita Skeeter herself), which read thus:

**_FAIRYTALE OR FARCE?_ **

> _What a to-do, dear readers! Just this evening, the silver Snake of Slytherin himself was seen entering the snug at the Leaky Cauldron with a mysterious witch, who turned out to be none other than the Golden Girl herself--Hermione Granger!_
> 
> _What appeared to be just a friendly, private tea turned out to be a hidden snogging session in the secret passages of a muggle London alleyway. The kisses went on and on so long that our reporter could not be certain just how long--except that they disapparated together from that spot (pictured)._
> 
> _No comment yet from the Parkinson camp, but we can expect that Pansy will not be pleased to see her fiance in the arms of another woman--and a Ministry darling at that!_
> 
> _Is it love? Have the walls of the Great War finally been demolished by a kiss? Only time will tell for certain. All we can say is that the images of their connection have stirred our interest! Stay tuned for what we hope will be exclusive news of the Wizarding world’s newest, brightest power couple!_

Hermione scowled. “How dare that poisonous witch,” she muttered. Then, she realized… Draco was staying at The Waldorf. Despite the fact that he had access to his own owl, he wouldn’t be receiving a Prophet delivery, by nature of their rules against delivering to muggle places of business. He would have no idea that they were featured prominently on the _cover._

 _But what did Skeeter mean by mentioning Pansy Parkinson?_ Were they not broken off? Had Draco broken it off, or Pansy? And _why_ hadn't they made a statement to the media, given just how public their original engagement was?

She just… had to tell him. In person. They had to talk about Pansy. In case it influenced his decision for Christmas.

Hermione folded the paper inside-out so the photos were hidden, in case she wound up somewhere muggles could see. She grabbed a handful of floo powder and stepped into the fireplace.

“Hermione? Are you alright?” Ginny called from the kitchen.

“See you tomorrow!” Hermione replied. She threw the floo powder down and the flames turned green. She wasn’t certain it would work, but it was worth a try. “Draco Malfoy’s room, The Waldorf Hotel!” she exclaimed.

A moment later, she was projected out into a crisp, white room with a jolt. She caught herself on an armchair and the hand of the Slytherin prince himself, who was sat in that very chair with a book and a cup of tea. She blushed and hastily produced the Prophet, before sitting on the carpet cross-legged.

“Hello, little soot fae,” he said fondly, though he was obviously surprised to see her. “What have you brought me, eh?” He unfurled the paper that she had provided. “Good lord,” he breathed, coughing into his hand. Hermione covered her face and laid back on the carpet.

“Is it awful?” she asked softly.

“Awful? Why… no,” he said, chuckling. Hermione peered up at him through her fingers. He was blushing, but he was also filled with some sort of odd… joy. “I think it’s a very accurate representation of what occurred in the moment, which I did not and _do not_ , in any way, regret.” Draco held a hand out to her and she grasped it readily. He pulled her up to him. “Were you afraid I would be embarrassed?” he asked, cupping her cheeks. Hermione nodded.

“How could you not be?”

“Are you serious?” he asked incredulously. “Hermione, do you not see how much I like you? Supposing that you’ve still got the coin… do you not feel it?”

The little golden coin warmed once again in her back pocket as he mentioned it. Hermione closed her eyes and breathed out. She buried herself in the comfort of his shoulder. “But now _everyone_ in the entire world knows. It doesn’t just belong to… us.” Draco hugged her.

“I admit that it I have been… knocked on my arse by our connection,” he said,” both literally and figuratively.” Hermione laughed. “And I would never have sought out a front page advertisement of that revelation,” he said, urging her to sit up so he could look at her. “But as it is… and as it appears in these pictures… I do not mind it at all.” He stroked her cheek with his thumb.

"Draco... why does Rita Skeeter mention Pansy?" she asked softly. "Haven't you been broken up for six months?"

He sighed. "Yes. Firmly parted, though it took a few months for Pansy to finally give up," he admitted. "I'm sorry that my past was dragged up in the article."

"But it's not _past_ , is it? You just bought back the fake ring, and the Prophet seems to think you're still engaged--"

"If you must know," he said, sitting her on his knee, "it was a condition of our families' contract that we keep our arrangement out of the press... regardless of whether or not the marriage takes place. And what's more... as I was the one who broke the engagement, I have been made to suffer the consequences."

"Which are?" Hermione peeped. Draco looked down and smoothed the fabric of her trousers.

"The Manor belongs to the Parkinson's now, by right, and I... do not have a home, other than my office in Oxford," he said plainly, "which I have not seen in many months. I am compelled to remain within _muggle_ London, and stay out of _wizarding_ London for a period of five years, or until such time as Pansy or myself marries another. I've had to transfer to working remotely from this suite. I am in London because I have to be." He laughed sadly. "I have been idling away in the city for six months, dreaming of Mallorca. I think I've been to the British museum thirty times. I can only go into The Leaky Cauldron because Pansy _won't_ go there, so it was her one concession. Never sign a prenuptial agreement, Granger. Especially if you don't love the bride to begin with."

Hermione couldn’t help but incline her head up to kiss him. Draco kept it short and sweet, but he kissed her forehead. “So, I unfortunately, physically, cannot attend Christmas Eve at the Weasels, no matter how much I wish to spend time with you.”

“Oh bollocks,” she said. "I'm so sorry Draco."

"C'est la vie," he said. "At least it meant I ran into you."

“It will be torture without you tomorrow, especially now.”

“I understand the feeling,” he shrugged. “Meantime… enough of my pity party. What are you doing the rest of today? Back to the Weasley den?”

She shook her head. “No, definitely not.”

“Well… if you’re up for it, I’d like to make good on my promise to get you a Christmas tree for your apartment. Maybe even decorate it with you. I’ve never had the pleasure, myself.”

Hermione clapped her hands together. “Fortunately for you, I live in _muggle_ London.”

“That is... fantastic news," he grinned.


	6. Stupidity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione discovers that the best solution to Draco's problem is the simplest one... the binding one.

They had chosen a little tree farm set up down the road from Hermione’s flat with the express idea of having a quiet evening in. They took a slow turn about the rows of trees; it felt like they were counting down to some inevitable parting… like, as soon as Christmas was over, they had to part ways. They both felt it. Their meeting had been brought on by the holiday, so… what would be left once Hermione had shown him all the best muggle traditions? Once she had found a gift for each Weasley (which now seemed an impossibility)? Once the coin in Hermione’s pocket no longer warmed? 

In reality, all either one wanted was to spend time, arm-in-arm, chatting their way through the day. Logic be damned.

It wasn’t long before the conversation shifted, as it had the last few hours, back to Draco’s broken contract with Pansy. Hermione was quietly delighted to learn that he had never loved her, that the contract had been initially written when they were still children and only recently amended to the current monstrosity. The more he talked about it, the more easy he became.

Hermione flicked the twig of an especially leggy branch. “So… why was the Manor such a weighty prize?”

“I suppose the clause about the Manor was a lynch pin for the contract,” he sighed. “An extra inducement for the Parkinson’s to agree to the marriage since I was a public defector (which was seen as a liability in pureblood society, even if we didn’t run in the purist circles any longer)... and my father’s insurance that I wouldn’t back  _ out  _ of it.”

“But you did,” she said, slipping her hand into his.

He squeezed. “Yes.”

“Why?”

He chuckled. “Would you like the annotated story with footnotes?”

“The truth,” she said gently.

Draco stopped walking and looped his arms around her. She mimicked his posture and smiled up at him expectantly. “Alright, if you must know…” He looked up at the fairy lights which were strung over the tree lot. “The thought of having to live in isolation for five years paled in comparison to the thought of living in the manor, where I saw so many tortured--”

“And suffered yourself,” she asserted.

“Yes. Quite.” He cleared his throat. “Pansy despises me, so our marriage would’ve been simply a formality. I would be alone for the whole of my life either way, it seemed.” He shrugged and rubbed her arms, though he was shivering himself. Hermione tucked his scarf into his collar and smoothed his lapel. “At least my father passed before I did the deed.”

“ _ At least, _ in your banishment, there are still Christmas trees,” Hermione said. They were standing between two extra large fir trees, with bristles brushing against their backs. Draco laughed.

“And there’s You.” Draco’s gaze flicked down to her lips. “Frankly, Granger… seeing you was the first glimmer of hope I’ve had in months. Even if you hated me, if you had shouted at me in the middle of Covent Garden, it least you were familiar.”

“I haven’t hated you for years,” she said. “And now we’re much more familiar.” She offered him a small peck.

“I don’t understand why you’re so… eager not to hate me,” he admitted.

“My behavior is a reflection of yours,” she said simply, though it was in no way that simple. “You have been open, respectful, gentle, and kind. Were you in any way still clinging to the past, you would not have the capacity for it.”

Draco let out a long breath and hugged her to him, tight. Hermione snuggled her face into the scarf at his neck. “Well, that settles that,” he said, sniffling.

“I have been lonely, too,” she said. She kissed his cheek. “Do let’s pick out a tree. We can spend the rest of the day questioning each other’s motives while we decorate it.”

The trees were few at this particular lot; it had been picked over in the days leading up to Christmas, so the vast majority of trees had wonky branches or leaned funny or had begun shedding their needles. Eventually, they settled on a slim cypress with a hole in one side, which would simply be masked by turning it to the back. They carried the small tree with a discreet flick of  _ wingardium leviosa. _ On the way home, Hermione popped into a small grocer for popcorn, oranges, and a string of flimsy white fairy lights, while Draco stood outside and guarded their prized tree. She also managed to find a few small trinkets (pig keychains that made farting oink sounds) for the Twins, as well as bottles of wine for Fleur and her former assistant Natalie, and a bottle of whiskey for Bill. Everyone’s gifts were taken care of except for Neville, and Hermione had a first edition copy of Hamlet that he had been eyeing during his last visit which would do nicely. The gifts seemed secondary now, though they had brought Hermione and Draco together on this Christmas quest.

Hermione’s flat was indeed quite small—with a galley kitchen, tiny loo, closet-sized bedroom, and a living room one could lay down in and practically touch each wall. But it had a nice fireplace, a very comfy sofa, and once they had shifted a massive stack of books, a nice corner for a tree. Luckily her cat was nowhere to be found.

Draco took care of securing the tree in a stand, while Hermione made cocoa. Then, together, they trimmed the thing.

They didn’t talk much as they decorated; Draco had fallen into a bit of a trance while stringing, and found himself altogether quite relaxed. Hermione, meanwhile, wound the lights around the tree and plugged them in. Draco was very satisfied by the sight and hummed his approval. 

The final touches made the tree really shine. The popcorn, the fruit, the lights, and her little hot air balloon ornament from Fogg’s. Simple, but sweet.

“Your first tree,” Hermione said happily, arm around his waist.

“So much better than the one at Hogwarts,” he said.

Hermione wrinkled her nose, but she nodded. “How are you feeling now? About Christmas and… everything else.” She handed him his mug of cocoa and they sat on her sofa.

“Rather good, for the most part.”

“Good!”

Draco set his mug on the coffee table. “The one thing that will be… unconscionably difficult to bear is that I won’t be able to visit my mother on Christmas Day,” he admitted. “I know that you understand. I am barred from even receiving news about her so, you see, I haven't a clue how she's doing right now. I may not know how she is for five years. And by then… she may not know  _ me _ .” He sniffed sadly.

“And there’s no chance that Pansy has a secret lover with whom she is eloping tonight,” Hermione said, rubbing his knee.

“No,” he chuckled. “Any marriage Pansy enters into will be advantageous, and any lover she might have is  _ not _ .”

“It’s down to you, then,” she said in jest, but a queer look passed over her face and she sat up on her knees. “I’m having a thought.”

Draco laid his head on the back of the sofa. “That I’m a poor sod you’re embarrassed to be seen with any longer?”

“Self-pitying is not a good look on you,” Hermione said. She brushed his hair off his forehead. “Draco, under what condition can you break your isolation?”

“Well… if I marry--” He stopped and looked up at her sharply. “ _What_ _thought_ were you having, exactly?”

“Hear me out,” she said, cupping his cheeks. “What if…  _ we  _ got married. Tonight.”

“Why would you agree to that?” He pulled her hands from his face and held them.

“You have important work in Oxford, which is nearly impossible to do from a hotel room in London,” she said, listing her reasoning. “Your mother is important to you and you shouldn’t have to suffer without her. You have a date on Christmas Eve to a party in a wizard home with  _ me _ . And then your banishment will be broken and we can divorce quietly,  _ and _ Pansy won’t have any power over you anymore.”

Draco looked gobsmacked. “It’s not that simple--you’ve only spent three days with me, Hermione.”

“So? I see a solution--”

“You’re not thinking logically!” He stood up and paced before the fireplace.

“I’ve never been thinking clearer.” She folded her hands in her lap and watched the wheels in his head turn. Many different expressions crossed his face, all puzzled. 

“Hermione,” he said, “I enjoy your company, enormously. More than anyone else living or dead. But don’t you want the first time you get married to be special?”

She laughed. “You’re worried that doing this with you will cheapen any future marriage, but you needn’t be. I am a rational woman.”

“It just… can’t be that easy.” He pinched the bridge of his nose.

Hermione stood and touched his shoulder. “Has  _ any _ of this been easy for you?” He shook his head.

“So--hypothetically speaking, if I agreed to this… and I’m not saying that I am…” he turned towards her fireplace and studied the photos there. His gaze fell on a framed photo of Hermione and her parents. He touched her image, which bore a carefree grin. “How would we go about this? Surely there’s no office open at this hour--”

“Oh, no,” she agreed. “Besides, you have to give about a month’s notice to the muggle Registrar’s office to have a legal ceremony and I haven’t owned a time turner in almost ten years. But I know someone who’s ordained  _ and _ works for the Ministry, who could file paperwork at any hour without the media finding out.”

“What? How?”

“You won’t like it,” she grinned. 

He groaned. “Gods.”

Harry Potter came through her fireplace after a brief chat through the floo. He understood that it was a matter of some urgency, that it concerned Draco Malfoy, and that it was to be a secret. Being that the Minister was almost always followed by Aurors, he had warned her that  _ someone _ would have to know of his whereabouts  _ and _ accompany him, people he could trust. Which is why Ron Weasley and Neville Longbottom followed him out of the fireplace. All three of them wore dark blue robes emblazoned with a small M on the collar.

Draco rubbed his temples as soon as the three men emerged and sat himself in the little green wingback chair, which was tucked into the corner of her living room. He pulled at his collar.

“Thanks for coming so late,” Hermione said, kissing Harry on both cheeks. She greeted Neville and Ron with a wave. “But I should’ve perhaps mentioned to bring Aurors who aren’t my particular friends with very  _ particular _ opinions.” She spoke the second part lowly, so only Harry would hear.

“It’s no trouble for  _ you _ , ‘Mione,” Harry said, “and you know they’re the most trustworthy Aurors I have.”

“They’ll have to do,” she said through clenched teeth. “Ron will have a cow. Harry, you’d do anything for me, right?”

“Of course,” he said.

“Then I need you to help Draco with something.” She turned so Harry could greet the man. Draco gave a feeble wave, Harry a brief nod.

“Is it something I could be removed from office for?” he asked warily.

“Not unless it’s illegal to officiate a private civil ceremony,” she said. Harry’s expression changed from concern to curiosity.

“Not at all. I’m happy to help.”

“Not sure you’ll feel that way when you hear the particulars,” Draco grumbled.

“And you intend to marry… Hermione, I’m assuming?” Harry asked. Draco glanced at Hermione, who simply smiled brightly. Neville beamed with excitement (he was always so supportive--Hermione understood why Luna had fallen for him). Ron turned green, and then purple.

“Nope,” Ron said, shaking his head rapidly. “As if the Prophet article wasn’t enough!”

“You don’t get a say, Ronald,” Hermione said, stepping closer to Draco, who now looked more chair than man as he sank into the seat. She crossed her arms.

Ron threw up his arms. “I believe I do--”

“Ron!” Harry and Hermione called at the same time. Neville clapped his shoulder and pulled him into Hermione’s small kitchen, where he could be heard making muted complaints.

Harry sat on the arm of her sofa and crossed his legs. “Explain? Why do you need to get secretly married, by the Minister of Magic, on the eve before the eve of Christmas?”

Hermione sighed. “Draco has been subjected to an engagement contract, which he has broken for good reason, but the consequences of that--”

“I cannot return to the wizarding world for five years unless I, or my former fiancee, marry,” Draco concluded.

“But you work for the Research Ministry; how long has your contract been broken?” Harry asked.

“Six months. I’ve been conducting business from a hotel room in London.”

“We cannot have you unable to perform your duties for  _ five years _ ,” Harry said.

“As I said,” Hermione agreed. “Not to mention his mother is in St. Mungo’s. He doesn’t have a home anymore, Harry.” Hermione put her hand on his arm. “The timing is just secondary.”

“It is pitiable indeed,” Harry said. “But Malfoy--you’re sure marriage is the only solution?”

“I’m not, but  _ she  _ is, and when have you ever known Granger to be wrong?”

“So… you’ll marry,” Harry said, “you’ll be free to re-enter wizarding society, and then… what? You two divorce?”

Hermione shrugged. “Maybe--”

“After a while...” Draco finished. They shared a glance and a small smile.

“I gather that you’re fond of one another, so I’ll spare you any protestations about  _ that _ , even if I think it’s fairly barmy what you’re doing,” Harry said finally. “But it sounds logical, which is the only way that Hermione operates. I’ll do it. And we had better do it now, before Ron remembers he has legs and a mouth.” Harry gestured for them to stand before the fireplace. 

Draco stood, still fairly dumbfounded that this was happening at all. Hermione tugged on his sleeve to reassure him. Harry produced his wand and joined their right hands. “I’ll save you the flowery version, for time.” He cleared his throat. “Hermione, please repeat after me. I, Hermione Granger…”

“I, Hermione Granger,” she said.

“Take you, Draco Malfoy…”

“Take you, Draco Malfoy,” she said. She rubbed his knuckles.

“To be my husband.”

“To be my husband.”

“Excellent. Draco, repeat after me,” Harry said. “I, Draco Malfoy.”

“I, Draco Malfoy,” he squeaked out.

“Take you, Hermione Granger.”

“Take you, Hermione Granger.” Draco squeezed her hand.

“To be my wife.”

“To be my wife.”

“Good, good. Now, please present your wands in lieu of rings.”

They did so.

“With the power invested in me as the Minister of Magic, I pronounce your marriage legally binding and your magic bonded. You may kiss.”

A small flash of light emitted from the tip of each wand. Hermione leaned up to Draco and kissed him sweetly. Draco felt a jolt of magic whip through him. He broke the kiss and pressed his forehead to hers. “Thank you,” he said.

“I’ll take care of the filing tonight, but you can be sure the Prophet won’t catch wind of it unless you insist on snogging recklessly in public once again. Malfoy, what’s your middle name?” Harry asked. 

Draco was red and quite embarrassed. Hermione patted his hand, which was still clasped in hers. “Lucius,” he managed.

“Of course it is. Well, if that’s all, I’ll be going,” Harry said. “And if you think I’m not going to tell Ginny, you’re joking.” He winked at his friend and removed himself to the kitchen to retrieve his compatriots. Ron was wrestled out of the kitchen with a merciless  _ petrificus totalus _ from Harry. 

“See you tomorrow!” Neville said with delight, following Harry and an immobilized Ron back through the floo.

Draco silently released Hermione’s hand and walked into the kitchen. He opened every cupboard until he found a glass and then downed three cups full of water, tossing the drops of the last into his face. He braced his hands on the sink and tried not to hyperventilate. 

Hermione leaned against the doorway and observed him. 

“What just happened in there?” he murmured.

“We decorated a Christmas tree and then we broke your banishment,” she replied. 

He looked up at her through a mess of hair that had flopped onto his forehead. “I married you. Right?”

“That’s right.”

“And you also… married  _ me _ .”

“That’s how it works, yes.”

“Aha.” Draco nodded slowly. His eyes seemed to be glazed over.

“But you say ‘when’ and we’ll get divorced just as quickly,” she said. “Tomorrow, if you like. I can’t imagine how much you miss Oxford.” She turned away from him and took a moment to gather up some unbidden emotions. Then, she headed for her room. “I’m so tired,” she called for his benefit. She had to think for a second.

Hermione went into her bedroom and shut the door. Well. It was done. Draco was free to go back to Oxford and resume his work. Hopefully he’d still humor her and go to the Burrow in the morning, but at least he wasn’t beholden to his contract anymore. She’d go back to… something. When she figured out what that was. Other than being unemployed, single, and bored out of her mind. How lovely it had been, she thought sadly… just a few days with him. Eventually she would remember it like a wonderful dream. After she missed him for a very long while.

She changed into her pajamas out of habit. A men’s pajama set, trimmed in soft satin ribbon. She craved the familiarity of them after a rollercoaster of a day. A soft knock sounded on her door. “Yes?” she asked.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to disturb you,” Draco said gently. 

“Come in, Draco, it’s alright.”

The handle turned and he peeked into the room around the door. He looked like he was in shock and some amount of turmoil--his hair stood on end as if he had aggressively been petting it for answers. Hermione perched on the end of her bed. “I bet you’re excited to go home,” she said, smiling. “Now that you’re free to do as you please.”

“Yes, well,” he began, running a hand through his hair for the millionth time. He looked down at the floor somberly. “I don’t know what to do with myself at the moment. I think I ought to go back to my hotel given the hour, except that… you’re my wife suddenly? So that feels rude. Is that rude?”

Hermione laughed lightly. “So bloody serious, Malfoy.” She beckoned him further into the room and patted the bed beside her. He pathetically padded to her and sat, staring at his hands. “Lay down.” She laid back and crossed her hands over her stomach. Draco slowly allowed himself to join her, but he was as stiff as a board. “Why are you freaking out right now?” She whispered.

He shook his head. “Don’t know. Is this your bedroom?”

“It’s a one bedroom flat, Draco--”

“I  _ like _ you, you know,” He blurted. “Nobody in my life has ever done something like this for me. I mean, my mother  _ birthed _ me, but nothing  _ else _ . But you just… appear! In my life when I desperately need someone to be on my side. And you  _ are _ ! Too much, I think. Perhaps you ought to see a healer.” He covered his face with his hands. “What I am TRYING to say is that… I’m grateful. And. I. Do not… that is, I have no immediate desire to seek divorce… even if it worked and I’m free. So. I think three days is enough time to know that.” He sighed dramatically and let his hands flop down at his sides. “Maybe  _ I _ need to see a healer.”

Hermione blinked at the ceiling. “Ahem. I apologize. Do you mean to say that you… want… to stay married. For real.”

“For now,” he breathed.

“ _ For now _ .”

“Yes.”

“Yes. Alright. If that’s what you want.”

“It is.”

Hermione turned onto her side towards him. “Curious,” she said. 

“What?” he asked, bracing for her answer.

“I like you too.” She smiled bashfully at the man she had married for his own interests not ten minutes prior, standing in front of their Christmas tree. “But I’m certain you’re thinking about all the things you can do now! You can return to your work--”

He shook his head. “Just forget Oxford for a moment. For now, right this second, I just want to be a vegetable on this bed. Everything is upside down and I’m tired.”

“All right,” Hermione said. She lifted his arm, snuggled up, and hugged herself to his chest. 

Draco laid his head against her curls. He couldn’t help but smile. “This will make tomorrow at the Weasel den  _ quite _ interesting,” he said. 

“You’ll come?” she asked, squeezing him around the waist in excitement.

“Do you honestly think you can shake me, now?” he asked. He kissed her temple. “I’ll be spending the next… well,  _ awhile _ ... trying to make sense of this week, and I’ll need your help to do it. If that means braving the Weasel Christmas, so be it.”

“If anyone questions us tomorrow, we’re not obliged to give them any answers,” she said. She held up her hand and he linked his fingers with hers, holding it tightly to his chest.

“As if we have any to give,” he said, laughing deliriously. He pulled back from her suddenly and looked her square in the eye. “We don’t have to…  _ consummate _ \--”

“Not in wizarding marriages,” Hermione said quickly. “The magical bond is enough to seal it.”

“Alright.” He buried her in his embrace again so she wouldn’t see how he blushed. “Not that I wouldn’t… I mean, I wouldn’t right  _ now _ … but. Sometime.”

“No, no, of course not right  _ now _ … that would be--”

“Crazy!”

“After the day we’ve had.”

“Barmy.”

“Loony, truly… loony.” Hermione began a shaking laugh of a sudden, which caused tremors through Draco and her bed. “We’re idiots, aren’t we?” she asked with a giggle. She wiped a tear of laughter from her cheek. “Oh Merlin. Stay here, tonight. Don’t question me; I’m too tired and too delirious to hear you.”

Hermione discombobulated herself from Draco’s embrace and crawled up to the top of her bed. She got under the covers and again patted the space beside her with a yawn. Draco knew better than to argue. He settled in, and within a few short moments, they were both sound asleep… every light still on in her flat, fire still roaring in the fireplace… too tired to function any longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, those crazy kids!


	7. Spoiled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and Draco turn up to the Burrow for Christmas Eve and the experience is... disasterous.

Hermione stood just in front of him on the front porch of the Burrow. She didn’t need to knock--if anything, she could just use her own key to get it. It probably wasn’t locked. But the doorknob looked suddenly impossible, or maybe imaginary? Hermione breathed little curls of cold and shivered. Draco rubbed her shoulder. “You’re going to freeze,” he murmured.

“Good,” she peeped. Draco squeezed her arm.

“Darling,” he said gently, “remember that we can leave at any time.”

“Can we?” She adjusted her bag over her shoulder, which bore all of their wrapped gifts for the others.

“Of course. And more than half of those in attendance _know_ … you know,” he said. “So surely we’re safe.”

“You think so?”

“No, but I don’t want to disappoint you,” he admitted. He pulled at his collar. “I am so nervous that my jumper has been trying to strangle me all morning. But we’re in this together. Come on, ‘Mione.” He reached ahead of her and turned the doorknob. She turned to him.

“You’ve never called me that before,” she breathed with a delighted smile. “This is your last chance to run, Draco.”

Draco kissed her temple. “I’m here. With you. You wanted this, remember?” he mused, nudging her through the door.

She allowed him to shoulder her into the house, but only because he kept his hands on _her_ shoulders, reassuring her that they had made the right choice. They had arrived just after lunch, as Molly Weasley had asked; the day would include many outdoor activities, like a sleigh ride around the pond and quidditch and snowmen building, before concluding for presents and dinner and an evening of boardgames. _If_ they survived that long.

Hermione tip-toed around the corner towards the kitchen. As soon as the floor creaked under her boots, Molly Weasley whirled around in a flurry of tweed and flannel. “We were _just_ talking about you!” Molly exclaimed, gesturing to Ginny and Fleur, who were helping her prepare the settings for the dinner table. Ginny crossed her arms and leaned back against the counter, grinning with a raised eyebrow at the man behind her. Hermione reached back blindly and Draco grabbed her hand.

“Thank you for having us,” he said softly, squeezing Hermione’s hand. He took the bag of presents from Hermione so she could embrace Mrs. Weasley and propped it against the wall just inside the entryway.

“Give me your coat,” Molly said, shucking Hermione’s off her shoulders before she could shrug out of it. “Not you,” she said to Draco. She tucked Hermione’s coat into the front closet and then snaked her hand around Draco’s elbow, pulling him away from Hermione. Ginny intercepted her friend before she could follow. Draco gave Hermione a look of panic. “Come on, dear, the boys are out back hitching the sleigh to our old mare…” Molly trailed off as she disappeared outside with Draco. The sliding door shut behind her. Draco was out _there_. Alone. With, presumably, the entire male Weasley hoard.

Hermione stared after him and swallowed. Hard.

“So.” Ginny said, patting Hermione’s hand. “Have anything you need to tell me, or…”

Hermione looked at her sideways. “Hmmm. No. Can’t think of a thing.”

Ginny scoffed. “I will murder you, Granger, don’t test me.”

“Ah… well, now that you mention it,” Hermione said, tapping her chin. “We’re _not_ spending the night after all, we have plans tomorrow morning--”

“Dammit, you’re MARRIED! TO HIM!” Ginny squeed. “Please explain to me how that even happened! And then _do_ explain why I wasn’t invited--”

Hermione held up her hands and sighed. “Stop it! I will tell you everything, but you have to keep your cool, Ginevera! Merlin’s ghost, you’re hysterical...” 

“Forgive me, but your love life is the only entertainment I’ve got!” Ginny said frantically. "My husband is the Minister of Magic and it's bloody boring!" 

“She’s right,” Fleur said. “She ‘as been talking about eet all morning!” Fleur was elbow-deep in cloth napkins, which she was folding into intricate animal shapes. 

“Where are your little ones?” Hermione asked Fleur. She smiled.

“Zay are upstairs, playing,” she said. “But forgive me--Ginny may burst eef you don’t give her answers.”

Hermione leaned against the counter. “Fine,” she sighed. “I helped him break an unbreakable vow.”

Fleur gasped. “Mon dieu! You cannot mean…!”

“Not like that,” Hermione said. “He’s was in a marriage contract with the Parkinson’s...”

“I _had_ thought he was engaged to Pansy,” Ginny said.

“He _was_. But she called off the wedding plans about six months ago, and he fully broke the contract soon after,” Hermione said.

“‘Ow does zat concern you?” Fleur asked.

“We’ve been seeing each other,” Hermione said, blushing, “in case you didn’t see our... _feature..._ in the Prophet. But the only reason we crossed paths in the first place is because he was restricted from the wizarding world for five years, as a result of breaking his contract with Pansy. Or. Until either _he_ or Pansy married someone else. So.”

“So…” Ginny repeated.

Hermione reached for a frosted biscuit and popped it into her mouth. “I came up with the idea of marrying so he could be free of his banishment.”

“And now you’ll… divorce?” Fleur asked.

“It’s only been _twelve hours_ ,” she sighed. “But eventually. _Probably_.”

Ginny grinned. “That’s not a ‘yes’...”

“There are a lot of factors!” Hermione stuffed another biscuit in her mouth. If her way of getting out of the inquiry was by biscuit, she was going to have a stomach ache before long.

“Did he slip you a love potion?” Ginny laughed. “Or have you been in love with him since we were children and I’m just now finding out about it?”

“No! No. I am quite fond of him, though. I… he likes _books_ ,” Hermione said, as if that explained anything.

Fleur and Ginny exchanged an amused look but the arrival of Molly Weasley in the kitchen shut them up for now. Molly was chuckling to herself and gave Hermione a knowing nod. “That boy needs to eat more,” she said, reaching for the teapot. She placed it on the front burner and sparked the stove. “I could snap his arm like a chicken bone and make a wish! Does he mean to insult me with his sharp elbows?”

“I couldn’t say,” Hermione laughed. 

“Well he’s about to have _my_ food, and _I’ll_ be insulted if he doesn’t lick his plate.” Molly touched Hermione’s cheek. 

“He’s not allergic to anything, is he?” Ginny asked. She shot Hermione a devious look.

“I don’t actually know,” Hermione blushed. 

“Would you be a dear and go ask him?” Molly asked. “I would feel dreadful if he were unwittingly poisoned on his first visit to my home.” 

Hermione coughed. “Yes, I’ll do that.” She hastened from the kitchen towards the back lawn, where she assumed he had been deposited for torture by the male Weasley’s. She couldn’t see anything suspicious through the back door--just Charlie and Bill winding rope, while Fred, George, and Percy tried (and failed) to get the very old mare hitched to their rickety sleigh. Draco stood beside Harry, considering the view of the pond… while Ron marched his way towards them. Oh _Merlin_. She burst out the back door and the cold hit her like a punch to the sternum. 

“Bollocks!” she exclaimed. Hermione trudged as fast as her boots could carry her, shivering like the dickens. Ron beat her by a longshot--Hermione could clearly make out his animated expressions of disgust as he lectured Draco about god knows what. Salazar’s left one! It was damnably cold! Save for the little warmth from the coin in Hermione’s back pocket, she was quaking with cold. Draco, on the other hand, remained completely unphased by the Ron-slaught, merely rolling his eyes and turning away from the man. He spotted Hermione and he frowned.

“Are you daft?” Draco called, wriggling out of his coat and racing for her. Ron followed behind, while Harry tried to drag him away.

“I was talking to you!” Ron shouted. He tried to throw Harry off, but to no avail. They were close enough that Hermione could just make out Harry’s low warning.

“You know, elbowing the Minister in the face is a serious offense…” Harry managed to grasp his friend firmly around the elbow and yank him away from his offending subject. Meanwhile, Draco had reached Hermione, thrown his coat around her and hugged her to his chest as if she had been lost in the Siberian wilderness for days without warmth. 

“It’s treacherous out here--what were you thinking coming out here without your coat?” Draco lifted her off her feet and carried her back to the house. Hermione couldn’t see anything but his furrowed brow and the lapels of the coat, which framed her face and ears. As soon as he brought her inside, Draco sat her down on the stairs and knelt at her feet. Hermione’s shakes lessened. He rubbed her hands. 

“Are you allergic to anything?” Hermione peeped, once she could speak. Draco stopped rubbing and narrowed his eyes at her.

“You hurtled yourself out into the snow and cold to assess my allergies?” he asked pointedly.

“Molly asked and I didn’t know,” she protested.

Draco laughed in exasperation, laying his forehead on her knees. Hermione tentatively touched the nape of his neck. He was slightly chilled after giving her his coat, but not as much as she had been. “I’m not allergic to anything, Hermione,” he murmured, “but thank you for being concerned.”

She smoothed a curled patch of hair behind his left ear, the one lock of hair on his head that swirled thanks to a pronounced cowlick. “I wasn’t worried about _that_ so much as Ron having words with you.”

Draco kissed the backs of her hands. “He tried. They _all_ did, matter of fact.” He smiled. Hermione’s eyes darkened.

“Who am I murdering first, then?” she asked, standing and trying to push past him. Draco caught her around the waist and put his chin on her shoulder, hugging her to him from behind. Through the window, she could see Harry with his arm around Ron’s shoulders. They were talking quietly, but animatedly. The eldest Weasley brothers joined them. The conference looked solemn, but not overly serious.

“They sort of… greeted me in a group, threatened to hurt me if I hurt you, and I told _them_ that it’s sexist to assume that you aren’t in control of yourself and your needs--and if they don’t trust you to assert yourself thusly, they’re daft.” He kissed her cheek. Hermione looked over her shoulder at him. “Harry then reminded them that I am a publicly supported defector and that I work for the Ministry, which is when they all agreed to give it up, shook my hand, and went about their business. Excepting the hot-head, who took a lap around the barn before he came back for another shot.”

Hermione covered his arms around her waist and laid her head back on his shoulder with a sigh. Ron shook off Harry’s arm and crossed his arms angrily. “He won’t give it up,” she said.

“He will. In time. Just imagine trying to give you up,” he said. “It would be a Herculean feat indeed.”

“Hercules, he is not,” Hermione said. “He won’t lift himself out of the... _dregs_ of the past.”

“It’s hard to do. It takes a lot of work to come to terms with what you lost,” he said. “Sometimes the best you can do is make peace with the dark parts of yourself and let them move on.”

Hermione leaned her head against his. “What does that make you, then, oh celebrated defector? Hades?”

“ _You_ married me after seeing me for three days, Persephone. What does that make _you_?”

“Certifiable.” Hermione swayed a bit in his arms. “Or just obsessed with your taste in presents?”

Draco glanced down at her with an eyebrow raised and she winked. “Did you bring _me_ presents?” he asked, eagerly releasing her so he could spin her around.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Hermione pecked his cheek and flounced towards the kitchen, which was made sassier by the flip of the sleeves of his coat behind her.

“Do I get my coat back?” He laughed. She stopped and turned back to him. 

“Ugh, _fine_ ,” she said with mock frustration, slipping out of his coat. She threw it around his shoulders and pulled on his lapels. “Are you sure you want to go back out there?” She inclined her head up and kissed him softly. Draco chuckled against her lips and returned her kiss with fervor. She pressed up on her tip-toes.

Someone coughed. Draco broke away from her and Hermione sighed. All six Weasley brothers and Harry stood just inside the back door, with various expressions ranging from delight to nausea on their faces. Harry just laughed.

“What?” Draco managed. “Can’t I kiss my _wife_?” Hermione pinched his arm. Ron was so red he looked ready to burst. “I could get used to saying that,” Draco said softly to Hermione. She wrinkled her nose at him.

“Laying it on a bit thick, are we?” she replied, but she blushed.

The bell rang and Mrs. Weasley could be heard bustling from the kitchen into the hallway. “Ah! Lavender, you look lovely!” she exclaimed. Ron raced past them into the hallway to greet his girlfriend. Harry patted Draco on the shoulder, as did the successive Weasley’s upon passing by.

“He’s alright,” Fred murmured to Hermione, indicating Draco.

“Decent bloke, good bloke,” George agreed. 

With Lavender’s arrival, they were a complete party for the time being. Luna and Neville weren’t going to make it until dinner, so it was deemed appropriate to start without them. Arthur wouldn’t be there until the presents were brought out--there had been an accident with muggles and a cursed carousel horse, which he had been sent to sort out. If Hermione still held her position in Muggle Affairs, she would’ve had to report to the scene as well. She was grateful to be rid of such duties. Molly shooed everyone out into the yard again, draped in coats, hats, gloves, and as many scarves as was possible for one neck to bear. 

The sleigh could only bear a few people at once and Ron made it clear (by how he dragged Lavender to it) that they had the first ride. They took off before anyone else could join them, despite there being room for two more, but that was just as well. The twins proposed a friendly quidditch skirmish. Ginny and Bill called captains and teams were somewhat sorted… excepting Draco, Harry, and Hermione. Harry had begged out of the match (“If I break my neck, who’s going to explain to the Wizengamot?”), and Hermione wasn’t the flying type. Draco was just… the odd man. But it didn’t sit well with Hermione. He _was_ the Slytherin seeker, after all. When she had started to voice her opposition to his exclusion, Draco had grabbed her hand. 

“Leave it. The teams are even,” he whispered. “Besides, I’ve never built a snowman and there is _ample_ snow available. Help me?”

“Your muggle Christmas education continues!” she exclaimed. 

Harry officiated the quidditch match from the ground, while Hermione and Draco crafted their very best snowman. Draco insisted that their snow person was perfectly fine without any accessories, but Hermione draped one of her three scarves around its neck. She used a few pebbles for eyes. It was quite adorable, overall.

It came to her attention slowly, but Hermione realized after a time that the others were… avoiding them. Or avoiding including them, at least. The quidditch teams flopped at one point, and Draco wasn’t asked to join once again. The sleigh returned with Ron and Lavender and Fleur and Molly took the children for a ride. Every little game or activity was begun without them. Nothing was spoken about it, but it was like a group agreement. Hermione and Draco settled on a bench beside the pond once it became clear to her that they wouldn’t be invited to join in any other activities. Even Lavender was drafted for quidditch, though she had never been able to stay on a broom for long.

Hermione grew irritated.

By the time dinner came around, Hermione was frustrated to a degree that she couldn’t even vocalize. She sat beside Draco, sandwiched with Ginny, and they weren’t even addressed in conversation. Not by anyone other than Ginny. Not even Harry, who up until now had been an ally. _What a bunch of cowards_ , Hermione thought. She must’ve been scowling at her plate because Draco nudged her with his shoulder. She looked up at him and he offered her a gentle smile.

Thankfully, Luna and Neville’s arrival seemed to remind _someone_ that she and Draco were part of the celebration. Luna and Neville sat across from Hermione and Draco and Molly finally served the food. Plates were passed at breakneck speed, like the food might disappear if the serving dishes weren’t in motion. Luna expressed her happiness that they had made it in time to eat.

The Lovegood-Longbottoms were late because they had been visiting Luna’s father, but they were no less chipper. Luna voiced her delight about Hermione and Draco, especially since Neville had been able to be there for the ceremony (nevermind that he hadn’t witnessed their actual vows). But even Luna’s gaze began to feel uncomfortable and Hermione grabbed Draco’s hand for purchase. It had felt, since the moment they had arrived, that they were either being ignored or critiqued. Hermione was starting to regret ever having come.

“You’re not wearing wedding rings,” Luna said, staring at their clasped hands.

Draco coughed. “I’m not really one for jewelry--”

“--and Malfoy gems are a bit flashy for my taste,” Hermione finished. Draco shot her a glance and frowned ever so slightly.

“Yes, well,” Draco looked down at his plate. 

Hermione drank deeply from her wine glass and an uncomfortable silence settled over the table. Arthur Weasley chose that moment to come home through the floo to everyone’s relief. Molly pushed back from the table to greet her husband, who entered the dining room like a jovial trumpeter.

“Happy Christmas Eve, one and all!” He exclaimed to the room. His gaze settled on Draco and his face noticeably fell. Hermione sighed a bit too loudly.

“It’s time for presents, dear!” Molly said cheerily. “Everyone, up, up up! I’ll clear the table later. Pick a spot in the living room and start distributing your presents.”

The mass exodus from the dining room left Hermione and Draco sitting in stunned silence at the table. She didn’t want to look at him. Draco leaned over and kissed her temple. “You worked so hard to get those presents,” he said. “We ought to give them.”

“Are you reading my mind?” she whispered. “Fine.” They joined the throng with shared reluctance.

If they had expected the present exchange to be any less excruciating, they were kidding themselves. Despite knowing that Hermione would be bringing Draco (even though the Weasley bunch had had only one day of notice), she was the only person who had brought gifts for him. Molly insisted on each person opening one present at a time while everyone watched, which was agonizing each time it came around to his turn. She had gotten him four books, and he knew what three out of the four were before he opened them. By the time they got to his last gift, Hermione was hoping to melt into the floor. The humor of _The Sober Death of Satan’s Underworld Kingdom_ was lost on the group. Draco still laughed, but his joy was dampened by the room.

“Is that a warning?” Ron chuckled. “It is rather appropriate, given…” Lavender elbowed him in the stomach. Draco stared daggers at him.

“Ronald, that’s not funny,” Hermione said.

“Ron, it’s not as if Mister Malfoy is going to relapse,” Arthur Weasley said, as if he didn’t believe his own words. “And surely if he did, Hermione would know what to do.”

“That’s right, we’re lucky he’s here,” Molly said, patting Hermione’s hand. “Surely he’s a changed man--”

Draco quietly stood, bowed shallowly, and left the room. He could be heard to gather his coat from the closet and exit out the front door.

“He still doesn’t have a sense of humor,” Ginny said.

“Gods!” Hermione shouted, standing up and kicking her own collection of trinkets. “You should all be ashamed of yourselves!” She grabbed the books Draco had left behind and fled to catch up with him. Nobody tried to follow her, so Hermione slammed the front door. Draco stood at the end of the front walk with his shoulders hunched. He said nothing as Hermione caught his elbow. She took his hand and disapparated without a second thought to her coat or the presents she had left behind.

Once they arrived in Hermione’s flat, Draco sat on her sofa and looked down at his hands. Hermione pressed her fingers to her temples.

“A bunch of idiots,” she said. Draco didn’t say anything. Hermione set the stack of books on the coffee table. “I’m so sorry, Draco.”

He shrugged. “A man has a threshold for comments and insinuations… mine appears to be much lower than I thought.”

“I had thought they would be on their best behavior,” she said sadly. 

“Malfoy gems are too flashy for you,” he parroted back softly, “I understand. There must be a piece of you who believes I’m liable to relapse at any moment. I am lucky to be invited. I should be grateful that anyone wants to make a joke at my expense. That’s about the whole of it, eh?” Draco leaned with his forearms on his knees and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Hermione sat at his feet. “That is categorically false,” she said. She rested her cheek on his knee. “Well… Malfoy gems _are_ too flashy for me but then, I’ve never been a gemstone kind of girl. I’m too plain for all that.” Draco brushed a thumb over her eyebrow.

“False,” He murmured. The wrinkled between his eyebrows deepened with concern.

“I am,” she said. “It’s not a bad thing to be un-beautiful, Draco. There’s so much more to life than being pretty. I’m not. I’m interesting--I have dynamic hair, for one thing--” she waggled her head so her messy bun tickled his face. He cringed, but he smiled. Hermione wiggled her way between his knees and Draco wrapped his arms around her. He pressed his lips to her forehead. “But _you_ are beautiful, much too beautiful for me.”

Draco sighed against her hair. “I’m not flashy.”

“You’re the sort of wizard that tabloids find _eligible_ ,” Hermione offered with a giggle.

“I like style! Sue me.”

“You’re a fop, Malfoy, you can’t help it,” she said. “Far above my level.”

“Agree to disagree,” he grumbled.

Hermione pulled Draco’s face down to hers and kissed him softly. “ _They_ do not speak for me,” she said against his lips. “You won’t relapse. You’re not an addict. And even if you were, it wouldn’t matter so long as you were _trying_. And… the only thing you should feel lucky to have is the will to decide who you let into your life.”

“I do.” He said. He kissed her. “Which is why… I got you something.” Draco reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box. He handed it to her. Hermione gasped.

“When did you have time to do that?” Hermione sat up straighter and accepted the box. Draco laughed. He scratched his head.

“Just open it, will you?” Hermione smiled at him coyly and flicked open the lid. Inside was a time turner. “I didn’t want to give it to you in front of everyone,” he said. “But it’s yours to use… just in case.”

Her gaze flicked up to his. “In case what?” she asked softly.

Draco sighed. “In case you have regrets about the last few days. And after today, I wouldn’t blame you.”

Hermione sat up on her knees and wound her arms around his neck. Draco buried his face in hers. “I don’t mean to be rude, Draco, but I reject your present. I don’t want it.”

“You might change your mind,” he said into her scarf.

“When have you ever known me to be changeable?” Hermione ran her fingers through his hair. She pulled back enough to look at him. He could not have looked more pitiful. “Do you think I’m going to suddenly start hating you as soon as the ‘magic of Christmas’ is over?”

“It’s possible,” he said. He touched her cheek. “Everything looks better in the glow of fairy lights. Especially me.”

“I can’t take this self-deprecation anymore,” she said, cupping his face in her hands. “I could really go for some traditional Christmas Eve shawarma and a night in, now that that fiasco is over.”

“I might be grumpy all night,” he warned. He looked quite run down by the whole thing, but not at all desirous of quitting her company. He just looked sad, and Hermione didn’t like it one bit.

“That’s alright,” she said. “You don’t even have to talk if you don’t want to.” Draco pulled her close again. It was a hug of thankfulness. Hermione rubbed his back. “Did you have _any_ fun today, amidst the passive aggression?” she asked.

“The snowman was good fun,” he said. “And I did have a moment of clarity.”

“Oh? What about?”

“I’m going to get you a ring,” he muttered. “And I’ll wear one, too.”

“Until we inevitably divorce, after an appropriate amount of time?” Hermione peeped. She was flushed. Draco sat back and took hold of her hands. He rubbed his hand over her knuckles.

“I think we both know that we won’t,” he said. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, not everyone is so adaptable to their new arrangement. At least they have each other!


	8. Sweetness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and Draco talk through some boundaries and have a Christmas do-over.

“Happy Christmas,” Hermione said sleepily, rubbing her eyes. She stood in the doorway to her kitchen where her childhood nemesis and husband of twenty-four hours stood, frying a few eggs for breakfast. They had both slept fitfully--it was tricky getting used to sleeping next to someone when one lived alone, and Hermione was prone to flip-flopping to get comfortable. Luckily, Draco didn’t snore, which recommended him greatly to her as a companion… for however long it would last.

He had arisen long before her--that much was clear from the look of the living room, which he had taken great care in arranging with a few small packages on the coffee table. The basket that had carried a breakfast for her just a few mornings prior now sat beside the hearth with a few bottles inside, though Hermione couldn’t tell what. Draco must’ve been able to contact his house elf, Ermina, which was yet another subject they had yet to breach. Had he managed to keep a house elf while living out of a hotel room? From the look of him, he had at least managed to get a change of clothing. He was wearing his green jumper from the first day of their Christmas shopping, as well as a pair of brown corduroy trousers and shearling-lined slippers. 

“Aren’t you cozy?” he said, taking in the sight of her. Hermione’s hair stood on end and she was enveloped in her bathrobe. “Happy Christmas, little wife.” They had made an agreement the night prior that they would carry on being married… they would talk about it frankly, refer to each other with whatever spousal nicknames struck them in the moment, and stop spending so much time fretting over what was proper. Three days was a breath of a moment compared to the four years she had spent in a relationship with Ron, but it just… sat right with her. All things considered there was a settled feeling to it. Why fight what felt right?

They hadn’t bothered discussing the L-word. Maybe it would come in time, maybe not. They had a spark, that was good enough for them.

“I could say the same about you,” Hermione said bashfully. She stood on her tip-toes to kiss his cheek. “I see you’ve been busy this morning.”

“Sit,” he said with delight. Once she was sat at the small kitchen table, he set before her a plate with a full english breakfast and a cup of tea. “Ermina brought a few groceries by quite early, I hope you don’t mind. She’s been bored out of her mind with me being away from Oxford and a house elf can only take so many bubble baths in a suite at The Waldorf.”

“I was wondering what you were doing with your hotel room,” she laughed. “You put your house elf up in style!”

“She deserves it,” he said, sitting down with his own breakfast. “Lucky for me, she wasn’t subject to my ridiculous contract and could come and go as she pleased from the hotel once I left Oxford. I’d have been lost without her.”

Hermione gave him a look. “I hope you don’t rely on her  _ too _ much.”

“Don’t look at me like that, madame,” he laughed. “Besides, you’ll love her. She’s a fiend for Agatha Christie novels and she teases me to no end.”

“If you say so,” she hummed, taking a large bite of her breakfast. “You’ve been holding out on me--you’re an excellent cook!”

Draco was indeed a very excellent cook. He also had excellent taste in Christmas presents. He had re-wrapped the book he had given her on what they were now referring to as their second date, which had remained in her shopping bag up until that moment, and was in fact a first edition of Jane Austen’s  _ Persuasion _ . She had given him what-for about it (“This is priceless! It’s too much--you can’t give me gifts like this!”) and he’d insisted it was nothing (“I can give you whatever I like, besides: I’ve already read it several times.”). Aside from the very valuable book that was most certainly much more than  _ nothing _ , he had given her a chocolate orange, a little pillow with lavender inside meant to soothe an aching head, and a Slytherin scarf (“I absolutely will not be wearing that!” “I’d wear a Gryffindor one for  _ you! _ ” “No, you wouldn’t.” “...no I wouldn’t.”).

It was a lovely Christmas morning, all in all. When the morning post arrived via Draco’s owl, there was no mention of either of them in the Prophet. There was a letter from the Burrow, but Hermione put it on top of the fridge, unopened.

They took their tea well into the morning on the sofa, chattering away.

“We ought to do something nice today,” Hermione said.

“What did you do for Christmas day last year?” Draco asked. He pulled her legs over his and rubbed her shins. 

“Hmm. Well, last year I was seeing that muggle bloke, Terrence,” she said. “But he didn’t want to introduce me to his parents yet.” She laughed. “He told me that I was ‘too much’ for a small family gathering. So I dressed up fancy and took myself to the V&A. It was a great day, actually.”

“He sounds like a prize idiot.”

“Nah. He was sort of embarrassed by me, and I think he just didn’t really know what to do with me,” she shrugged. “By the time he and I met, I was running my own department at the Ministry, which was difficult for him to fathom. I was having my robes custom-made. I had weekly salon appointments. I was obvious that I really didn’t  _ need _ him, and he needed to be needed by a woman. Since then, I’ve relaxed a bit with my personal care… let my hair go wild a bit. I shop a lot of resale shops, find quirky things.” She smiled when Draco reached out and ruffled her curls.

“Still don’t need anyone,” he said proudly.

“Yes, well,” she laughed, leaning into his hand, which found purchase on her cheek. “Need and want are two different things.”

“Is that so?” he asked. His eyebrow crooked.

“Mhm,” she said, sitting up on her knees. “For example: I don’t  _ need _ to own a cat, I want to. He’s a crotchety old man with hard opinions on cat food, but he’s been a better companion to me than most human beings ever have.”

“I’ve  _ never  _ seen him,” Draco laughed. “Some companion he is!”

“He’s skeptical of new people!”

“This is a  _ tiny _ flat; where could he even be? The way you describe him I’m waiting for the day I wake up with an ancient cat standing over me with a knife!”

“Leave my poor baby alone,” she laughed. “You can’t bully him into liking you.”

“He’ll have to get used to me eventually,” he said.

“Like someone else I know, it can take him a while to warm up,” she said, poking him in the chest. Draco gasped in mock indignation.

“Excuse me, I’ve been nothing but warm!”

“Only took you  _ twelve years _ \--”

Draco tackled her into the sofa cushions and pinned her down. “Madame, you still have a lot to learn about me--I’m neither cold nor a bully  _ anymore _ .” He flopped down on top of her.

“Oof!” she laughed. “What do you call this, then?”

“Smothering you until you concede.” He snuggled his head into the crook of her neck.

Hermione managed to get her hands free and tickled his sides… to no avail. He didn’t budge. “You’re joking! You’re not ticklish?”

“Nope,” he said smugly. “Just on my feet, but you can’t reach them.”

“Ugh!” Hermione huffed. “That’s not fair.”

“Why not?” he asked, raising his head to look at her. “Are  _ you _ ticklish, Granger?”

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. “No comment.”

“I promise  _ not _ to tickle you if you tell me,” he said. He gave her an innocent smile.

“I am,” she admitted. “But I hate it, so don’t do it! Please.” Her fingers gripped his shirt.

Draco braced himself over her with his hands on either side of her head. Her face had turned from laughter to panic. “I won’t. Not ever,” he said softly.

“Thank you,” she peeped. She was flushed. Draco sat back and took her hand, helping her sit up. He smoothed her top. He braced on arm on the back of the couch and rubbed her hand.

“Perhaps we should… talk,” he suggested gently. 

“We’ve  _ been _ talking,” she said.

“You know what I mean, darling.”

“Alright,” she agreed. She cleared her throat. It took her a long time to say anything; there were many thoughts to sort through. “Um. So. This is all… overwhelming. A bit. This relationship business. Being in one. All of a sudden.”

“Mmm.”

“Aren't  _ you  _ overwhelmed?” she asked. 

Draco nodded once. “I’m still convinced this isn’t really happening,” He said. “I feel not unlike a comet hurtling through space right now.” She blinked.

“And… Are you attracted to me?”

Draco couldn’t help the smallest smirk of a smile cross his face. “Quite.”  She nodded and looked down at their joined hands. Draco touched her cheek. “Are you attracted to  _ me _ , Hermione?”

“Mhm.” She squeezed his hand but still didn’t look at him.

“I will never touch you without your permission,” he said. “Or push you to do something you’re not ready for. I know what it means not to have control over your body. I will do what I can to make you feel safe.”

Hermione leaned forward and pressed her forehead to his chest. She made an exasperated sound into his shirt. He chuckled and wrapped his arms around her. “If and when you decide that you’re ready, I’ll still be here.” He laid his cheek on her head. Hermione huffed again. “Why do you keep sighing?” he asked in amusement.

“You’re being too nice,” she grumbled.

Draco traced circles on her back. “All this is assuming that you’d like to continue seeing me with regularity,” he said.

“I married you, didn’t I?” she said, her words muffled.

“Yes,” he laughed, “but that was as a favor to me. And plenty of married people live apart, live separate lives… the fact that they’re married is secondary to their goals and such.”

“I don’t want that.” Hermione snuggled deeper into his chest and Draco leaned back so they were lying comfortably on the sofa. He brushed her hair off her face. She closed her eyes for a moment. “Do you want that?”

“No.”

She looked up at him. “Do you want to go back to Oxford?”

Draco nodded. “I’d like to. I have a good thing going, there. And a good team.”

The wheels in Hermione’s head began to turn once again. She smiled, finally. “So… what if I go with you?”

“Would you?” he asked. “I think you’d love it there.”

“I don’t _have_ _to_ live in London anymore,” she said, “and I don’t have any emotional ties to this flat. I like the idea of access to the university, presuming you’d be willing to smuggle me into at least the _library_.” Draco nodded. 

“Piece of cake,” he said. “I’ve been hoping to buy a little cottage there; you could help me find something cozy.”

“I’d like that,” she said. “And. I like you, which helps.”

“Do you?” he asked slyly.

“Is that news to you?”

“No. I can’t really fathom why, though.” His eyes glinted with a challenge. She rested her chin on his chest.

“Are you so desperate for validation?” she asked. 

“Consider me needsome in this moment.” Draco tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.

She sighed dramatically. “Fine,” she said. “Would you like a dramatic monologue or an itemized list?”

“A dramatic list.”

“As you wish,” she said. “I warn you: I know some very large words.”

“Consider me warned!”

“Alright. But don’t look at me, I’ll get embarrassed.” She reached up and covered his eyes. Draco closed them and held her hand over his heart. “Good. Well… number one, but in no particular order… you’re very good looking.” Draco crooked an eyebrow but said nothing. “Sometimes I can’t look at you for too long because I get heated. Looking you in the eye for prolonged periods of time makes me actually lose track of my thoughts. Also, you’ve grown into your height and now you’re all… muscle-y, I don’t know--”

“And  _ you’re _ the one who’s going to be embarrassed!” he exclaimed, peeking at her through one eye. His cheeks were pink. 

“Close your eyes!” She waved her hand over his face again. He acquiesced.

“Number two: I knew when we were young that you were neck-and-neck with me for high marks, and we’re still well matched in wits. It makes me stupidly happy that you’re such a voracious reader, or at least I assume you are given your appetite for book shop browsing.”

“I read almost seventy books this year,” he bragged. Hermione rolled her eyes.

“Yes, but you read for your  _ job _ , so I’m sure many of those were ancient texts and not what you read on your own time.”

“Honestly! They were all personal choices on my own time,” he said. “I kept a log! My therapist made me track them.”

“Number THREE! YOU GO TO THERAPY. Gods, I can’t tell you how refreshing it is not to have to decipher a man’s emotions…”

“Just remember that when I do or say something insensitive at some point,” he coughed. “I still have a proper brood every once in a while.”

“Noted,” she said. “And number five: so far, you go along with my hare-brained schemes.”

“I think I’ll spend a lot of time running after you to catch up,” he said, “but you’ve got a sharp brain and I know you think things through. And I could use some spontaneity.”

“I’m not spontaneous,” she scoffed. Draco opened his eyes and looked at her pointedly.

“I’m sorry, that’s a scandalous falsehood against yourself in the last four days.”

“Number  _ six _ ,” she said, tapping him on the lips but giving him a scowl. “You call me out when I’m… wrong. I can get carried away on a cause and I need reigning in.” Draco kissed her finger.

“Big of you to admit it,” he said. “Alright. That’s enough of that. A man can only stand to have his ego stroked for so long and I don’t take compliments very well--”

“Seven! Humility!” Hermione giggled at the way he rolled his eyes.

“Come on, you,” he said, heaving himself upright and taking her with him. “Let’s get up! We can’t just lay here all day long. Let’s do  _ something _ .” Draco pulled her up off of the sofa.

“Like… going to see your mother?” she suggested. She rubbed his arm as his face fell. He nodded.

“Would you come along?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“If you’re sure. And for the record,” he said, kissing her sweetly. “I like  _ you _ . I like your muchness,” he said. “I’m proud of you. And… I want to tell my mother that we’re married.”

Hermione tugged on his shirt. “What if she remembers me?”

“Even if she remembers you, which is doubtful given her lack of lucidity last time I saw her, she’ll be happy if I’m happy.” He kissed her forehead. “She protected me…” He stopped as if it was too difficult to elaborate without causing himself distress. “I’ll tell you about it sometime. But know that she had renounced all the blood purity nonsense prior to the whole memory loss thing.”

“Alright,” she peeped.

“Yeah?” he asked hopefully.

She nodded. “I’d do anything for you,” she said simply. The queerest look crossed Draco’s face. He pulled her into his arms and hugged her tightly. He breathed out slowly.

“What have you done to me, Granger?” he whispered.

“Well,” she said softly. “Besides dragging you all over London, getting you a front page story in the Prophet, and subjecting you to quiet torture at the hands of the Weasley family?”

Draco laughed. “I told you.  _ So spontaneous! _ ” He pulled her up against his chest so her feet were no longer touching the ground. “Mmm! Can I treat you to a Christmas dinner tonight?”

“If you like,” she said. His breath of delight tickled her cheek, but as it was an accident, she managed not to flinch.

When they arrived at St. Mungo’s, they made certain not to show outward affection to one another. No hand-holding, no lingering looks. Just two… fairly famous people… visiting a famous defector. It caused more of a stir than they would’ve liked to arrive together and all they needed was a secondary story in the Prophet. They knew it was a possibility now that they were on the Prophet’s radar. Still, at least the medi-witches knew why Draco was there to visit the hospice wing, and Hermione’s presence wasn’t questioned (at least outwardly). Witches in white robes scurried around them in hushed whispers, but Draco affected an air of ease and smiled warmly at whomever he made eye contact with. Hermione nervously smoothed her hair.

Narcissa Malfoy had been staying in room 157 in the hospice wing at St. Mungo’s for seven years; since the death of her husband and Draco’s father, Lucius, in Azkaban, Narcissa had been slowly losing her memory and had become unable to channel her magic any longer. It was happening naturally. This made it even harder for Draco to deal with. There was nobody to blame for cursing her, no poison to find an antidote for, just the effect of trauma on an aging brain. 

Christmas was always a cheerful time in the hospice wing; the medi-witches had games and biscuits for the residents whose families were visiting for the holiday. Narcissa was sat at a card table with three other witches as they played a facilitated game of dominos when Hermione and Draco were shown into the community room. Four other families were there, too, sitting with their loved ones and sharing a cozy moment. Draco had grown to love this tradition. Everyone gathered together, even if they weren’t related. And Narcissa did love it, and she seemed to have her wits about her today. She looked up as he entered the room and her eyes lit up. She remembered her only son, and on this particular Christmas, he had brought her three specific gifts.

One: a shawl that Ermina had crocheted out of nubbly yarn in a lovely crimson color.

Two: a copy of her favorite book that Ermina had liberated from the Manor under the Parkinson’s nose.

And three… 

“Happy Christmas,” he said softly, touching her shoulder. Narcissa looked up at him with a placid smile.

“Hello, darling,” she cooed. Draco kissed her cheek. “Who’s this?” she asked.

“Mum, this is Hermione,” he said. He held his hand out to Hermione and she took it. Narcissa nodded.

“I know you,” she said, a look of recognition coming over her. The smile remained on her face and she patted their joined hands. “How are you, dear? It has been ages.”

“I’m well,” Hermione said, stunned. “And you?”

“Now that you’re here,” Narcissa said, nodding to the two of them, “I’m happy as a lark.” Draco knelt down at the arm of her chair and a nurse brought one for Hermione to use. 

“Mum, I have a bit of news for you, if you’re up for it,” he said softly. Hermione put her hand on his shoulder in reassurance. He glanced up at her.

Narcissa touched his cheek. “You can tell me anything, darling boy.”

“Hermione and I are--”

“Married,” Narcissa finished. “Yes, I know.”

Draco and Hermione exchanged a look of worry. “How do you know? Has someone told you?”

Narcissa placed one of her dominos where the nurse indicated it should go. “It’s obvious, just look at you.” She touched Draco’s cheek and then looked dreamily at Hermione. “Now, darling, stop talking and listen to the music, it’s my favorite.”

There was no music on, just then, but he understood. She had another world going on in there. But she was delighted to have them there and she kept telling the medi-witches that her son was visiting with his wife. It was such a wonderful Christmas, Hermione felt like her heart was going to burst. Watching Draco with his mother… he was so loving. So tender. He took such delight seeing her open her gifts and helped her wrap the shawl around her shoulders.

Finally, a group of carolers arrived for revelry and the patients were settled in their chairs by the fire. Narcissa requested that Draco and Hermione sit on either side of her. The carols were jovial and everyone joined in. Narcissa, in one of her clearer moments of lucidity, leaned over to Draco and asked, in a low voice: “My love… did you at least get my jewelry, when…” she trailed off. Draco hung his head and shook it. 

“No, Mum. I barely got that book for you,” he said, indicating the book on ancient plant life that Ermina had pilfered for him.

“No, I mean…” Narcissa pressed her hands to her temples to will herself to remember. “The deposit box.”

“Gringotts?” Hermione offered and Narcissa’s face lit up. She held out her hand to Hermione.

“Yes. Thank you.” Narcissa squeezed Hermione’s hand tightly. “ _ Lady Malfoy _ .” She giggled. “Suits you. I have a ring that would fit you in the deposit box, I think. It’s a small sapphire. Lovely on you. Draco will get it for you.”

Hermione’s eyes welled with tears immediately. “Thank you,” she whispered. Narcissa kept on holding her hand for as long as the carols lasted, and Hermione was in a perpetual state of wanting to cry. She ventured a look at her husband, who had his arm around the back of his mother’s chair. He sensed her looking at him and glanced up. As soon as he saw the sheen in her eyes, he smiled and nodded. He understood. His eyes were red, too.

“Thank  _ you _ ,” he mouthed to her. "All this?" he indicated the room and then his mother between them. "Your fault." He winked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only a few more chapters left! Will the Weasley's be able to make it up to Hermione and Draco? Will they be able to get the deposit box? Will they move to Oxford? Will Draco EVER meet Crookshanks??


	9. Sincerity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and Draco face some more gently intimate truths.

It wasn’t a perfect substitute, but the celebration with Draco’s mother had proven to be a much-needed balm for the family-shaped hole in her heart. And _they_ were one now, weren’t they? A family?

The thought had Hermione verklempt long after they bid Narcissa farewell; she clung to Draco’s coat sleeve as they left the hospital, his fingers gripped between hers. She wanted to cry… twelve years worth of sorrow in exchange for one somewhat normal Christmas… complete with family drama and delights. And a person with whom to weather them.

He had given her a real Christmas.

Draco had kissed her in front of the floo, in front of a host of giggling nurses, and she could not have cared less.

When they arrived back at Hermione’s flat, it was nearly time to leave again for dinner. The time had gotten away from them. It didn’t matter, _really_. Their time was their own and a forgotten reservation would mean little for their ability to enjoy the night, but the twitch of an old cat’s tail from beneath the sofa seemed to indicate that they had been missed, and that a feeding was nigh.

“There you are, old man!” she exclaimed to her old cat. “Sorry we’ve been away from home all day.” Hermione picked Crookshanks up from beneath the sofa and used his tiny cat paw to wave hello to the new man.

Well, _her_ home. She knew he felt like a bit of an interloper in her tiny flat. They hadn’t set their living arrangements as such; he had suggested they return to Oxford _after_ the first of the year so she could get her belongings packed, but they couldn’t bear being apart for longer than a few hours, so… he just was going to _stay_ _there_ in her flat… all the while keeping his clothing at the hotel? They had some arrangements to sort out. Maybe take a solitary hour here or there, so they wouldn’t tire of each other. In the meantime...

“ _This_ is Crookshanks,” Hermione said, balancing her fuzzy companion in her arms. He looked like a miniature lion who had been electrocuted on a low voltage for the span of fifty years. Draco stood back a respectable distance and bowed.

“Sir, it is my distinct pleasure,” Draco said. Crookshanks hissed. “Now, now,” Draco chuckled. “I’m in _your_ abode, dear chap, we’ll play by your rules. I’ll go no closer.”

“I’ll just feed him,” Hermione said with a laugh. She disappeared into her bedroom with the fuzzy creature and Draco observed the various magnets and photographs on her refrigerator. The corner of a white envelope peeked just over the top of the door. Draco reached up for it. It was the letter from the Burrow that had arrived in the morning.

He shucked off his coat and laid it over a kitchen chair, pocketing the letter in the back of his trousers. Hermione padded into the kitchen in her fuzzy slippers. “The beast is content,” she said.

“I am, you’re right,” he said with a wink.

“Not you,” she said, poking him in the chest. “But I’m glad.”

“I am quite at my leisure,” he said, wrapping his arms around her. “And please remember when I say this next sentence that I absolutely adore you and today has been perfect.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “ _What?_ ”

Draco reached into his back pocket and pulled out the letter. “You ought to read this,” he said. She closed her eyes.

“I so don’t want to do that,” she said. “I’m so mad, I could scream”

“I know, and I’m not at all discounting that,” he said, “but I don’t want you to finish out the year estranged from your dearest friends because they were--”

“Morons!” she exclaimed.

“...I was going to say ‘mistaken’, but yes,” he said. He held out the envelope and she sat on a kitchen chair in a huff. She ripped it open so violently she nearly ripped it in half. Draco stifled a laugh at her dramatic pout.

The letter read as such:

> _Dear Hermione and Draco--_
> 
> _I’m sure an apology will mean very little to you now that the damage has been done, but I wanted to extend one to you anyway on behalf of my entire family._
> 
> _We collectively behaved in a way that is unbecoming of ones who have survived great turmoil and lost people whom we love--and of people who love you, Hermione. Draco Malfoy knows the pain the war wrought better than anyone. When he was a guest in our home, we made ourselves look no better than what we were wordlessly accusing him of being._
> 
> _I am so sorry. His welcome should not have been conditional on any recommendation other than the fact that you, Hermione, invited him. Your love should have been enough for us, as it has always been. I’m sorry that you were upset._
> 
> _Please accept this letter as both an apology and an invitation for yourselves on any future occasion that we might be brought together. We could not be happier for the two of you. There is nobody else who deserves happiness like you._
> 
> _Humbly yours,_
> 
> _Arthur Weasley and the Weasley family_

Hermione huffed. She handed the letter over to Draco and fanned her face. She was angry and flushed. Draco nodded as he read. “This is very thoughtful,” he said.

“I don’t like it,” she grumbled, hugging her arms around her waist. “‘I’m sorry you were upset’ is not an apology!” She stood and threw her hands up in exasperation.

“He means well,” he said. 

“Draco,” she said, grabbing his face. “I need him to own the fact that they acted hurtfully. Me being upset was a result of that. I was upset because of the way they all treated you. Not because I _chose_ to be upset.”

“I know,” he said, grasping her wrist and rubbing it gently. “The fact that you care so much… about my feelings… it’s really touching.”

“I never want you to feel that way again,” she said. “They have to know that they hurt us both.” She brushed his cheekbone with her thumb. She looked ready to cry, so Draco kissed her gently. 

“Thank you,” he said.

“Please,” Hermione begged. “Don’t thank me for doing the bare minimum.”

He folded the note up and handed it back to her. “What are you going to write back?”

“Don’t know,” she said. “I haven’t decided how long to be upset about it.”

“Well,” he said, kissing her cheek. “Let me know what you decide.” He looked at his watch. “Oh dear. I’d better run. I’ll be back soon, alright? Like an hour or so.”

Draco left her to her own devices to get ready for dinner, while he popped back to his hotel room to freshen up and change his clothing. Hermione went through her closet while she pondered the letter.

What in Merlin’s name had gone wrong on Christmas Eve? Why were they so reticent to include him after all this time? Especially since he had come with her. It’s not like he had just randomly appeared on their doorstep--for Merlin’s sake, were the publicly-circulated photos of her snogging his face off not enough to convince them that he had changed? Or did they think that she was divorced from all logic?

She ran her fingers over the shoulders of the tops in her closet. What the hell does one wear to a nice Christmas dinner when one’s date is Witch Weekly’s most celebrated snappy dresser? Rude man, with his velvet and silk and cashmere. Why couldn’t he just wear some polyester or a polo shirt? Now _she_ was mad at him. Too gods-be-damned good-looking. How dare he!

Hermione huffed. “Obviously he’s a good person!” she breathed, hand settling over black straps. “Bloody Weasley pride.” She pulled the garment from her closet. Would he like her in a dress, or… ought she wear trousers and look sensible? Hermione pulled a one-piece romper out of the closet and held it up. It was cute, and blue always suited her… No, he had emphasized _nice_ , so. Fancy? Did she own anything truly fancy? She returned the romper to its place and sorted through more garments, settling back on her one dress--a black a-line dress with a nipped-in waist. She had several years worth of fancy dress costumes in the back of her wardrobe, but this black dress was the most formal dress she owned. It would have to do.

She slipped on the dress and sighed at herself in the mirror. It would do. With a few additions… ‘gods, who has the time for all this?’ she thought, rifling through her drawers for suitable accessories.

She clicked to the loo in her black flats once she had talked herself out of hiding beneath her quilt and pretending she didn’t own anything _nice_. She scowled at herself in the mirror.

How could she ever go back to The Burrow, now that she and Draco had decided to remain married? Would every visit be tainted from then on? What had she done, bringing him there? He didn’t deserve that. She would spend as long as it took to make sure he believed her. If she never had to see him look that sad again, it would be too soon. She decided in that moment that she _would_ reply to the letter, but she would take a few days and draw it out, for the sake of keeping them on edge. And then she could really consider what she needed to say.

Now for her hair… she applied a cream that Molly Weasley had made for her, which was meant to smooth out her voluminous curls into uniform ringlets. It didn’t work quite that well, but it at least kept the frizz down. But should it be up? She pulled it half up and turned to the side. Yes, up was the way. It showed off her neck. Did he like her neck? He had a very nice neck himself--

“Lovely girl, we’re going to miss our reservation,” he called, knocking on the bathroom door. Hermione jumped and brushed on some mascara. Why was she so bloody nervous? By Draco’s standards, this was like any other dinner reservation. It was admittedly easy for him to be fancy. He was fancy by design. He could wear a suit made of burlap and be accepted at any high-end restaurant. She didn’t feel fancy, or lovely for that matter.

“I don’t look fancy enough,” she called, pulling at her dress. She would be sure to grab an embroidered velvet jacket she had found in her favorite charity shop to complete the look. It wasn’t too strange with the shoulder pads removed and it least the fabric seemed sumptuous.

“Let me see you,” he said gently. Hermione opened the door a crack. Her hair was pulled up into a bun with curls spilling out of it. She had on a pair of green earrings of her own, as well as black nylons and low black shoes. His face cracked into a huge smile. He held out his hands to her. “You’re perfect,” he said. Hermione set her hands in his and smiled bashfully. Her heart leapt into her throat.

“I’m not,” she said. “I don’t own anything fancy! If I had known you’d wanted a formal dinner--”

“Love, I just want to go out to Christmas dinner with you,” he said, clasping her face in his hands. “There’s no need to fret over formality.”

Hermione sighed. “But you always look so good and I… I feel like an acorn.”

“You’re beautiful, Hermione. But if it would make you feel better to go in pyjamas, I’ll do it,” he said.

“No--ugh! You don’t understand and I don’t know how to put it into words,” she sighed. Draco kissed her forehead. 

“You’re right,” he said. His stomach growled and Hermione couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m obviously too hungry to try to convince you how lovely you are, right now. Let’s pick this up later, when I can properly list out all your best qualities.” He held out his arm to her. “I shall need at least three hours to list them all, supposing we don’t take a break.”

“Fine,” she said. “But I’m going to be a grump all night.” Draco patted her hand.

Draco whisked Hermione off out her front door ( _with_ the vintage velvet coat) and down the block to a little restaurant he had looked up nearby. It really wasn’t anything fancy, but it _was_ nice--Italian, lots of candles, good wine. Draco looked at her longer than usual for the whole meal; his prolonged eye contact seemed to be daring her to renew her protestations, but he kept tracing the inside of her wrist with his fingers and offering her more wine, and she remembered how very _nice_ he was to look at.

When they were finished, Draco paid the bill, even though Hermione asked to split it (“My money is your money, now,,” he said, which made her sigh and roll her eyes). She had mostly shaken off her dull mood. Then, he made a suggestion that made her wonder.

“Do you want to stay at The Waldorf, tonight?” he asked as they walked towards her flat. Hermione looked up at him with hooded eyes. “As a last Christmas treat.”

“Um… I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve never stayed in a hotel like that before.”

“There’s a _really_ large bed,” he said, “so you can be a starfish and you won’t even know I’m there.” He smiled innocently at her. Hermione pulled her cloak closer around her shoulders. “Or I’ll sleep on the sofa and you can sleep like a queen.”

“Well,” she began, “I suppose that would be nice. For one night.”

“I’ll even draw you a bath,” he suggested.

She groaned. “Oh, that sounds like _heaven!_ Why do you do this to me?”

“One of these days I’m going to sorely disappoint you,” he laughed. “I have to collect all my good works points now.”

“Ten points to Slytherin for being a damnably thoughtful man.”

“Now, hang on--we’re in a house _together_ now, so I don’t want to collect for Slytherin… what could _our_ house be called?”

“Who’s our founder, then?” she laughed.

“I guess it’s you!” He touched her nose and she laughed.

“Fine, but I don’t want to name it after me.”

They arrived at her front doormat and she turned the key to let them in. The oldest cat in England wandered into the living room after enjoying his dinner, sat on the mat before the hearth, and mewed forcefully.

“Crookshanks, it is!” Draco laughed.

“Ten more points to _Crookshanks_ , then, for that revelation.”

Hermione packed a small overnight bag, with pyjamas and an outfit for the next day, when they would do (Draco promised) absolutely nothing. She left the master of the house a bowl heaping with kibble and a goblet of water. He mewed his approval before they left. 

They arrived at the Waldorf via bus, which it turned out Draco had never tried… anywhere he had needed to go in London prior to Hermione, he either walked to or he hailed a cab. She felt quite self-conscious walking through the lobby with him, especially considering he was a long-term guest… had he ever taken someone else there, she wondered?

It didn’t really matter, now. She meant it, even as she thought it. He was allowed to have had a rich life prior to her influence in it. And hopefully richer still as the year turned over and made way for fresh experiences.

“Should I change my name?” Hermione asked as they waited for the elevator. A bell boy had been dispatched to fetch a nice bottle of wine, after being introduced to Mister Malfoy’s wife by the concierge… who had acted delighted, but yet somehow unsurprised. Hermione wondered how many conversations Draco had had with the concierge over the course of six months. He probably knew a great deal about Draco, now.

Hermione yawned. They were arm-in-arm and she had the scarf she had sworn not to wear draped over her shoulders. Turns out she looked ravishing in green, and Draco had told her so immediately.

“Wouldn’t that feel very permanent?” he asked. “A legal name change and all that, the paperwork. I think we’d have to announce it in the papers or something.”

She shrugged. “I’m toying with the idea of permanence,” she said.

“Well, I don’t know,” he said. “I think ‘Hermione Granger, Lady Malfoy’ sounds quite dignified.”

She winced and Draco chuckled at the look on her face. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about the title…” she said. “And I had to hear about it from your _mother_.”

“Too gauche? Should I change my name?” he asked. “I would gladly take Granger.”

“No,” she said. “You’re Malfoy to me. I don’t want you any other way.” 

He nudged her with his hip. “And you’re my Granger.”

She looked up at him and smiled. “Maybe I’ll hyphenate.”

“Mr. Malfoy, Ms. Granger,” the concierge said. “This way, please.”

“That settles that.” Hermione said. “I like our names one right after the other.”

They rode up to the fifth floor in silence--Draco with his hands in his coat pockets, Hermione with her arm through his and her head on his shoulder. He was angled towards her, lips a hare’s breath from her forehead.

He let her into the room with a flick of his key card and pointed to a chair upon which she could deposit her dufflebag. Then, he went into the loo without her and she took in the room on her own. It was stark--mostly white walls with small black accents. He was a tidy person, so none of his belongings were strewn about, despite the fact that he had been living there for six months. But one sleek green tartan jacket was draped over the back of a wingback chair, and she felt at once the spirit of him in it. She really… adored that spirit. A sense of recognition for beautiful things, for not wanting to disturb them and yet indulge in his own definition of beauty. Her heart leapt into her throat. The faucet started in the bathroom. She turned to see him leaning out of the room.

“I have salts, love--do you want lavender for your bath?” he asked.

She could have swooned. “I would,” she said softly. He grinned.

“I knew it.” He disappeared again. Hermione sat on the bed, a massive four-posted King thing. She felt a sense of utter shock, really.

How… how did she wind up here? In a very expensive hotel room… rented out by a man she had despised as a child… who now looked at her like she was made of marzipan and chocolate, and kissed her like he might die without her… wasn’t it all a dream? 

She settled into a massive jacuzzi tub laden with bubbles, a glass of wine perched on the edge, and a very handsome fellow sat in his pyjamas beside her. He had given her privacy to get into the bath, but come in when she had asked. He was very respectful, not pushy at all… he just wanted to be near her and give her comfort. 

They still had so much to learn about one another. Likes. Dislikes, pet-peeves--joys, dreams. Hopes. Goals… so much beyond liking each other.

“Do you want to have children?” she asked, flicking a small bubble off of her knee.

“Might do. With the right partner.” He peered at her out of the corner of his eye and winked. “Do you?”

She sighed. “Yes. Against my better judgment,” she said. “They would never be able to know my parents, and I do not feel in the least equipped to raise tiny human beings… but…” Hermione sighted and sank further into the bubbles.

Draco said nothing. He merely bobbed his head lightly.

“But I think I need it. For my own family identity…” she was nearly buried in bubbles, except for her forehead and eyes. Draco glanced at her.

“You know,” he said, clearing his throat, “I never did think I could have one. A family.” He looked down at his glass of wine--a cabernet that he had specially requested for them, something french and bold and soothing and all-together brain-numbing. “But every day this week, I have woken up and experienced something that I want to teach someone else to appreciate… like muggle Christmas, for example. I knew Christmas was delightful _before_ , especially when you get a tree decorated by goblins and presents made of actual charms, but there is so much more to a holiday when it is devoted to gathering together. And a child would do that for me… or a wife,” he said, holding out a hand to her. Hermione took it, even though her hand was wet and bubble-laden. He squeezed so tightly. “Hermione… I’m so worried that you’ll wake up tomorrow and realize you’ve made the wrong choice,” he admitted. “I’ve spent the last week in a state of total…” the word escaped him and he shrugged.

“Bafflement?” Hermione offered.

Draco squeezed her hand again. “Yes.” He looked at her pointedly. “You are so much more than I could ever have dreamed. And frankly, until I ran into you, I thought I didn’t deserve it.”

“Why did you sign that marriage contract, Draco? It could have ruined your life,” Hermione asked softly. She held his hand to her chest; his sleeve was getting damp, but he allowed her to clutch it tightly.

“ _This_ wasn’t possible in my mind,” he said. “I was completely isolated from anyone other than my parents’ inner circle, I didn’t have any concept of hiring a lawyer or protecting my own interests. My choices were few. My inheritance was all I had.”

“You don’t have anything now,” she said sadly. She felt his loss acutely. A man without a home to return to.

Draco laced her fingers with his. “This,” he said firmly, “is not _nothing_.” He pulled himself up to the side of the tub and leaned over to her. “You are my world, now.”

“Draco,” she breathed, but he kissed her before she could say any more. Hermione reached up and cupped the nape of his neck. He worried her top lip as the steam of the water curled around their joined faces, intensified by the heat between them. Hermione leaned up and pressed her chest to his clothed torso, while he wrapped his other arm around her naked waist. He lost his balance and splashed into the bath over her, but she didn’t care; Hermione merely made way for his fully-clothed body in the water beside her by flipping him beneath her and straddling him in the water.

His hand slid to the curve of her lower back. “I don’t deserve you,” he breathed against her lips. Hermione stopped abruptly. She sat back, grasping his hands where the had come to rest between her waist and her arse, fully bold in her nakedness. “I don’t deserve your intimate trust.”

“Let’s get one thing very clear,” she said breathlessly. “You deserve to be intimate with someone who will do so in tenderness.”

Draco pulled her down so she was snuggled against the full length of his body. “Would you?” he asked her. 

“I will,” she said. Hermione kissed his jaw, then his earlobe, then his cheekbone. Then, she showed him in no uncertain terms that he was worthy of being intimate with a trustworthy partner.

It was the best Christmas either of them could remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this won't be a very explicit story, but I have changed the rating. They deserve their own intimacy, I think. Just a few chapters to go!


	10. Settled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Ginny make amends and Hermione and Draco surprise each other.

They awoke the next morning in a tangle of limbs, with Hermione’s hair trying to strangle them both, and with a sense that everything had changed between them. There was no pretending now that they weren’t compatible, that this wasn’t something they both wanted desperately… and had done for some time. Two very lonely people were now a pair of giddy lovers. True familiarity would come in time. For now, they just smiled sleepily at one another.

Draco ordered room service for breakfast and wrapped his ‘little wife’ as he had taken to calling her in a plush robe that had come with his room. They ate breakfast in bed, and then they settled in to do some reading. Draco was propped up against the headboard with Hermione between his knees. He read aloud to her from one of his magazines, a circular about English gardening that he had been perusing on their first outing together. He told her about the great garden at Oxford, and then small one he was planning. She picked out the flowers she liked best--tulips, hydrangeas, crocus, peonies, and English roses--and made it very clear that an aubergine would never grow in any garden of hers, as she loathed them deeply. Draco crossed his heart that the veg would all need her approval before being planted. His only requirement was that the window boxes on their hypothetical cottage be filled with daffodils ( _ narcissus _ ) for his mother. 

Then, Hermione read to him for awhile from  _ Persuasion _ , until he closed his eyes and started breathing shallowly, and then she read to herself in his arms.

The amazing thing about waking up together on December twenty-sixth was that things had  _ not _ imploded between them. Christmas was over, and they had only grown closer.

Hermione agreed to a jaunt home mid-day; Draco had an errand to run (“I had better go to Gringotts while it’s on my mind; just because Pansy never bore my name doesn’t mean she wouldn’t try to get at our vault!”) which he felt he must make on his own. They decided, despite the lovely evening they had spent in the hotel together (and a long, luxurious morning in bed), that it was time for Draco to check out for good. He packed up his bags (a five-piece matching set of italian luggage--“Seriously, Draco--do you shop in Italy  _ exclusively _ ?”) and bid farewell to the room that had been his only sense of normalcy until Hermione.

It took fifteen minutes to coax Draco away from the front desk; he took the time to say farewell to every member of the staff who he had come to know during his stay, especially the concierge (Sheffield), who gave them his best wishes for their marriage. Draco shook the man’s hand and promised he would never stay in another hotel whenever he was next in London. 

“Remind me to send him a pair of tickets to something exciting,” Draco whispered to Hermione as they excited via the revolving front door. “His wife loves theatre and I know he’d love to take her.”

“Only if you take me, too,” she said. “I could do with a night at the theatre or the ballet or something.”

“Love to.” He grinned. “What shall I do with a wife who enjoys such delightful things?”

“Spoil her rotten?” she suggested, smiling innocently. 

“I’ll see what I can do,” he laughed, leaning down to kiss her. 

They hailed a cab, packed their luggage into the boot, and bustled themselves off to Hermione’s flat. Draco’s luggage took up most of the kitchen and he apologized profusely, but she waved him off. Then, he left her alone to spend some quality time with Crookshanks, who had curled around Draco’s ankles in reluctant acceptance of his new permanent housemate.

Meanwhile, Hermione sat down at the kitchen table with a piece of parchment and a quill. She had a letter to answer. 

> _ Arthur and Weasley Family _ ,
> 
> _ Thank you for your letter. I understand that it may be difficult to adjust your biases, especially when they have so long been fermented in the concrete definition of Us vs. Them. I had those same feelings to overcome and I know it takes work. All I ask is that you trust me to make decisions for myself that are good and logical. If any of you ever again make Draco or myself feel as we did on Christmas Eve, I will make a clean break. Do not underestimate me on this point. If you try to make me choose, I will not choose you. _
> 
> _ That being said, we would be happy to join you again for another future event. We will be returning to Oxford after the first of the year, so let’s try to make plans before then.  _
> 
> _ Sincerely, _
> 
> _ Hermione Granger, Lady Malfoy _

She underlined the signature twice and took great delight in doing so. Perhaps it was petty but she felt she had earned the right to be petty. Her letter was succinct and clear. Make changes or lose her. Draco’s owl flew off with the note tied around its leg. That was that.

...Until the Minister of Magic came through her floo an hour later. 

Hermione sat sheepishly in her green wingback chair, while Harry settled onto the couch. He had on what would be considered his typical Minister robes, and then a strange flopped-over pointed hat that he seemed to be trying to get used to. He pulled it off as soon as he saw her. It took him a few moments to speak. When he did, he looked sorrowful.

“Arthur received your letter,” he said, twisting his hat in his hands. “It was a good letter--maybe better than we deserved.”

She didn’t say anything, she just nodded, looking at the ground.

“Hermione, I… I am so sorry for what happened on Christmas Eve,” he said quietly. “After the two of you left, our evening was rotten. Molly cried and cried. The twins got into a fight with Ron, Lavender stormed off and as far as I know, she hasn’t spoken to him since. We have been agonizing over it.” He scratched his chin. “Ginny more than anyone. She gave  _ me  _ a fair scolding herself, after crying into Charlie’s shoulder.” Harry looked up at the ceiling as if he was projecting the whole evening onto it. He sighed heavily. “What can I do… to make it up to you both?”

“‘S alright,” she murmured. Her heart hurt at the thought of them in turmoil, even if it did satisfy her hope that they felt real remorse.

“No, it isn’t,” he said. He looked down at his hands. “I should have advocated for you. I knew that you were in your right mind. I saw you together, hell I  _ married _ you. And, I have personally worked with him. It was my failing.”

Hermione smiled sadly and held out her hand to him. “Thank you, Harry.” He squeezed her hand. 

“I wanted to invite you both to my home tonight; the majority of the Weasley’s will be there to have a bit of a Christmas do-over,” he said. “No pressure, just time with us all together. Would you come?”

She nodded. "I may be sour about it for awhile, but I meant what I said in the letter. We will come.”

“Good.” Harry stood up and opened his arms to her. Hermione hugged him tightly. “We’re all dressing formally, it’s Ginny’s idea. She wants to take you to Madame Malkins as a belated Christmas gift.”

“Oh, that’s too much,” she said, looking up at him.

“Not at all. She will be here in about…” he looked at his watch, “twenty minutes, if you’ll agree to it.”

“I guess I will,” she said. Harry smiled.

“Good, good. I’m assuming Draco has formal robes already.”

“That is a very safe assumption,” Hermione laughed. “I’m sure he has several.”

“Wonderful,” he said. “I’ll see you tonight, Hermione.”

Harry disappeared back into the fireplace and twenty minutes later, his wife came through. Ginny renewed Harry’s apology and the two friends made up… more or less quickly when Ginny told her how she made Ron eat slugs, and Hermione confided that Draco had put her up for a night in The Waldorf (nevermind the details about the length of his stay). Ginny whisked Hermione off to Madame Malkins with the reassurance that they would only pick out something truly worthy of her.

An hour later, Hermione stood on a short pedestal while Madame Malkin herself draped a variety of fabrics over her and Ginny clapped for anything with a bit of shimmer.

“What color does Draco like you to wear?” Ginny asked eagerly.

“I don’t think he has a preference,” Hermione blushed. “He just likes… me. Besides, it’s not up to him what I wear!” She flailed her arms and a piece of orange taffeta puddled on the ground. Madame Malkin sighed but took that as a sign that orange was not to be.

“That’s what I like to hear,” Ginny said. “What about that white raw silk with the silver flecks in it?”

Madame Malkin held up the fabric in question. “Uh… it’s awfully bridal, isn’t it?” Hermione said, turning to face Ginny, holding it up to her chin. “Do I even look good in white?”

“It sets off your hair quite nicely,” Ginny shrugged. “What were you wearing when you  _ did the deed _ ?”

“It sounds gross when you say it like that,” Hermione wrinkled her nose. Ginny laughed.

“When you  _ married _ that sexy blond cover-boy with a  _ very _ nice arse, might I just say--”

“Gods, Ginny!” Hermione couldn’t help but laugh and cover her face in embarrassment. “I didn’t have time to think about it! Um. I wore those denim button-fly trousers and that red jumper I have that falls off one shoulder,” Hermione said. “It was… sort of last minute.”

“Well then, why not choose something that’s a little bridal? What’s wrong with that?”Ginny asked.

Hermione turned back to the mirror. It was lovely fabric… and she truly hadn’t had a chance to even consider what to wear when she got married just a few short nights ago. If she had, she might’ve chosen something much like this. Especially in the style that Malkin was suggesting, a fitted knee-length dress with a gauzy overlay that would look quite floaty.  _ Especially _ to someone so well dressed as Draco Malfoy.

She wondered if Draco had something that would match, but then… anything Draco might like would go well, she was certain. She hoped he would be stunned at the look of her. She had inspired many reactions from him, but she had yet to see him be truly gobsmacked. She could imagine it, though. His eyebrows would raise and his dimples would deepen as he smiled wider than ever. He would hold out his hands to her but be too afraid to touch her, really. He would say something sweet. She nodded.

“It will do,” Hermione said.

“Yay!” Ginny clapped. “Charge it to the Minister’s account, Madame Malkin. Let’s get lunch!”

Ginny and Hermione walked out of Madame Malkin’s with a box containing Hermione’s new dress robes, satisfied that they had found the perfect look to properly perturb a Malfoy. Ginny treated her to lunch as well at a new little bistro just outside of Diagon Alley which was owned by wizards but largely patronized by muggles. It was the perfect place to catch up but still retain some anonymity. 

That being said… the Minister of Magic’s wife and the woman who was a celebrated war hero AND had lately been photographed snogging Draco Malfoy walking into a bistro together had quite the effect on the owners, who gave them the very best table in the back.

Ginny sat back and observed her best friend, who had the loveliest blush in her cheeks.

“I think he’s good for you,” Ginny said.

“It’s so bizarre, Gin.” Hermione stuffed a large forkful of pasta into her mouth.

“Yes, but he seems to be very kind to you. You’ve never had that before.” Ginny shrugged. “Ron was never nice to you. He’s an immature idiot who has a lot to learn about loving people.”

“You’re too severe on him,” Hermione protested. “He’s just… dealing with things poorly.”

“Yes, well,” Ginny said, sitting forward. “Lavender broke up with him yesterday.”

“Poor Ron,” Hermione said. “Is it very cruel for us to come tonight? I don’t want to  _ torture _ him.”

“He’s not invited tonight. He’s not invited to join in any family event unless he can treat other people with some dignity. You should’ve heard the things he said to Draco… according to the twins it was horrid."

Hermione put her head in her hands. “Draco didn’t tell me  _ what _ he said, only that he tried.”

“He didn’t just try.” Ginny touched her arm. “My mum spend a good hour reaming him out for it after you left.”

Hermione sighed. “I hate this. I feel responsible.”

“Don’t you dare take any credit for his feelings,” Ginny insisted. “If you get blame for anything at all, it’s for forcing us to face the issues we’ve never dealt with.” She rubbed Hermione’s shoulder. “You loving someone like Malfoy--that is, someone who hasn’t been given a proper chance--is not something to be ashamed of.”

“I didn’t say I  _ love _ him,” Hermione coughed.

Ginny grinned. “Don’t you?” Hermione put her head down on her arms and gave an exasperated sigh. “You don’t have to say it, but it doesn’t mean that you don’t.”

“It’s too early to tell,” Hermione protested, muffled by her arms.

Ginny laughed. “No it isn’t.” Hermione glared at her. “It isn’t! Love comes in phases, ‘Mione. Maybe you’re not in the deep-and-abiding kind of love yet, maybe you’re just in the everything-is-a-little-foggy-except-you phase. And you’re in phase two, let’s say.”

Hermione propped her head up on one hand. “I guess… I guess I’m in the… Marian Paroo phase.”

“There were bells all around but I never heard them ringing?”

“‘Til there was you,” Hermione finished. 

“If you’re quoting ‘The Music Man’, it’s love,” Ginny laughed.

Hermione could not help but smile. “Fine.”

“That’s what I thought.” Ginny finished her sandwich and paid for their meal. Hermione requested one last stop before they parted ways until dinner.

Hermione met Draco at the door to her flat that afternoon with a cup of tea and a smile. He gave her a gentle kiss.

“Hello darling,” he said happily.

“I missed you,” she said. “And… we have plans tonight.”

“Do we?” He took the cup of tea from her and set his briefcase down on the kitchen table.

“Mmm. Harry has invited us to come over for a Christmas re-do.” She leaned against the counter. “We have to dress formally, and Ronald will not be there.”

“Aha… how did that come about?” He asked.

“I replied to the letter,” she said softly. “And then… Harry came over. And Ginny bought me new robes and took me to lunch, so… I think everyone is feeling properly sorry, so…”

He cupped her cheek. “Do you want to go?” he asked. He leaned next to her and sipped his tea. 

She nodded. “I can’t waste my new robes… and they did seem to be  _ quite _ sorry.”

“I’m game, if you are.” He bumped her hip with his. “I have something for you, though. Might boost your resolve. Would you like to see?”

“Sure,” she said hesitantly, feeling for the small package in her jumper pocket. Draco set down his cup and opened his briefcase. He picked something up and closed it again. Then, he turned back to her. In his hands, he held a little blue velvet box. He popped it open. Hermione gasped.

“So,” he began, breath wavering. “The band in the middle with the sapphire is the ring my mother mentioned, and the two bands around it are new. From me. Obviously,” he laughed. He was nervous. “I had it made for you while I was out today. Nothing too garish--I know that you don’t like anything big--but I hope you like it. It will fit you, I had it charmed to adjust for your finger. And I asked for sapphires to match my mother’s ring because I figured you wouldn’t like diamonds, given their ethics issues--”

Hermione launched herself at him and threw her arms around his neck. “Shhh. I love it. It’s perfect.” Her eyes were wet. She pulled back and kissed him. Draco pressed his forehead to hers and breathed out a sigh of relief.

“I’m so glad,” He whispered. He took her left hand in his. “May I?” She nodded. Draco popped the ring out of the box and slipped it onto her ring finger. It was a bit snug over her second knuckle, but it was beautiful. She held out her hand and watched the blues glisten. It was indeed quite perfect.

“I have something for you, too, as it happens,” she said. She pulled out the package in her pocket and handed it to him. It was the same sized box as the one he had pulled out for her, only it was black. He gave her a look of shock. “What can I say? Great minds…”

Draco opened the box. Inside was a silver band with a ring of celtic knot work through it. He allowed her to put it on his hand and then he laced their fingers together. “Well, well. My wife has tricks up her sleeve.”

“We are more official, now,” she laughed. “And I hope you have some formal robes that will go with silver and white.”

“How about green?”

Hermione pressed her eyes shut in mock consternation. “So help me, they better be velvet…”

Draco laughed. “For you? What else would I wear?” 

“Perfect. Tonight, we will go back into the throng of Weasley’s with our finery, with these--” she held up their clasped hands, “and we will be true to ourselves.”

He bore look of total amazement. “Hermione…” he stopped and swallowed hard. “I know it has only been a few days, but… I couldn’t be happier. And, as such, I...” He shook his head. He couldn’t make the words come out, but Hermione got the gist. She wrapped her arms around his waist.

“I know,” she said softly. “I feel it too.”

“We’re lucky,” he managed finally. She nodded.

“Yes, we are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can the Weasley's pull off a proper re-do?


	11. Splendid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Ginny throw the ultimate reception for the new Malfoys and there are a few heady surprises in store.

As they prepared for the Christmas do-over in separate rooms, Hermione appraised herself in her full-length mirror. In these snowy robes, she felt like she was floating in a cloud of sparkle. Ginny had given her Molly Weasley’s newest hair curl formula, which made her curls float down her back in perfect spirals. She had pulled the front pieces of her hair back with a starry comb, and crystal dangles hung from her earlobes. Her eyelids were swiped in a dusky blue, which made the caramel tones in her eyes stand out, and a touch of silver in the corners gave her some extra sparkle. She twisted the ring on her finger and smoothed the front of her robes. In the mirror, the blue stones stood out against the white. Maybe she was a gemstone kind of girl, after all.

A knock sounded on her door but the entrant didn’t wait for an answer before throwing the door open. A house elf stood in the doorway to the bedroom with a bouquet of wildflowers, freshly picked. “Where is the witch who has made my master  _ giggle _ to himself when he thinks nobody is around?” the house elf announced.

“ _ Ermina! _ ” Draco called defiantly from the living room.

Ermina held the bouquet out to Hermione, who bore an expression of surprise and delight. “Cor! You are a wonder, madam. I hope you don’t mind me saying so. My master has  _ neglected _ to allow me the pleasure of meeting you--”

“I told you not to rush her,  _ not  _ that you  _ couldn’t  _ meet her,” Draco corrected.

Hermione laughed and took the bouquet. “Thank you!” She placed the flowers in an empty jug on her dresser.

Ermina rolled her eyes. “He’s reluctant to share you. He’s always been like that when he’s obsessed with something. Got a kitten for his sixth birthday. I didn’t see it until it was down to three lives.”

“Alright, I’ve heard enough!” Draco stepped into the room and Hermione covered her mouth. He had indeed decided on velvet--an emerald green velvet open robe which swirled around his feet with a border of silver embroidery. He had opted for a dark green vest and trousers, which had a fine silver pinstripe pattern throughout, and a black shirt with a straight collar. The best part were his loafers, which were also velvet and and embroidered with his monogram. He had coiffed his hair in such a way as to be perfectly tamed with pomade, but with some height, and he had the sides undercut. 

Draco’s dimples deepened, and he sighed. “I hope your silence means I look alright; otherwise I’ll have to change!”

“You  _ know _ you look wonderful, Draco Malfoy. In that coat, you make Dorian Grey look humble,” Hermione teased. 

“She’s got you there!” Ermina cackled. 

“Mmm. She most certainly does.” Draco held out his hands to Hermione and took her in. “My gods. Titania has been uncrowned.”

“Do you like my robes?” Hermione asked. “I thought maybe they were too bridal, but Ginny said the white was nice, and I didn’t wear a wedding dress, so--”

“My darling wife, I would marry you all over again in these robes if you wish. White is  _ very  _ nice. I don’t think I deserve someone so beautiful.”

“Do you talk to her like this all the time?” Ermina scoffed. “I might be sick.”

“Hush, you,” Draco said, pressing his lips to Hermione’s. “I love her, I get to say whatever I want.” He paused. He cleared his throat and his gaze flicked to hers to gauge her feeling about his sudden admission. “If it’s all the same to you… I'd like to leave that particular topic for now.”

Hermione cupped his chin. “It is the same. For me. I have been a little bit in love with you since you bought me breakfast, and I am scared witless about it. But you have me.”

“I do,” He breathed. He shook his head and pulled her against his chest. “She’s in love with me,” he murmured.

“Lady Malfoy indeed.” Ermina clapped her hands happily. 

“Just call me  _ Hermione _ ,” Lady Malfoy said with a laugh into Draco’s chest. “A title is too fancy to wear every day.”

“Shakespeare’s tragic queen!” Ermina gasped. “I’m head over heels, Master. I’ll give her whatever she wants. I’m convinced. I am  _ wooed! _ ” The house elf faux-fainted against the footboard of Hermione’s bed in a dramatic swoon. Hermione held out her hand to Ermina, who took it warmly.

“I’ve heard you’re a great fan of Agatha Christie, so we’ll get along famously.” She winked at Draco. “Come, Lord Malfoy. We have a party to attend.”

“Finally,” Ermina said. “ _ I _ have a date with Hercule Poirot and a cup of tea and that marvelous green chair of yours. So, scoot!” She shooed them towards the living room.

“Ermina, do you mind feeding Crookshanks?” Hermione asked, sleeving her wand.

“Of course not.” The ancient cat himself waddled to Ermina’s side and curled his tail around her legs. She patted his head and Crookshanks mewed in adoration. “We’re good friends.”

“ _ When  _ did you meet Crookshanks?” Draco asked in disbelief.

“Last time I was here.” Ermina shrugged, as if that explained it all. 

“Well,” Hermione said, “we will leave you to it. Thank you, Ermina.”

“Anything for you, Mistress.”

“ _ Hermione. _ ”

“Hermione.”

Draco and Hermione traveled side-along to the Minister of Magic’s home, which was a humble tudor home in the Cotswolds. Harry had managed to convince the Ministry he could comfortably commute via floo network and live well outside of London, so Ginny got her dream cottage (if you could call a ten bedroom former manor house a cottage) in the country. The front walk was lined in rose bushes, and on this particular evening, the bushes were glowing with fairy lights. Draco and Hermione touched down at the end of the walk. The front door opened almost as soon as they appeared and Harry strode toward them, flushed with excitement.

“Ah! You’re both divine!” he said. “I do hope you’ll forgive me--I may have gone a bit overboard with our little party.” He shook Draco’s hand and kissed Hermione’s cheek. “Please tell me you’re hungry.”

“We’re up for it.” Hermione slipped her hand into the crook of Draco’s elbow. 

“We are,” Draco agreed. Harry clapped him on the shoulder. 

“I’m thrilled. We’ve all been anxious for you to arrive!” Harry’s black robes were flecked with tiny gold stars and they billowed behind him as he hastened towards the house with his friends.

Ginny met them at the door, dressed herself in deep blue silk. “White was a perfect choice,” she said, hugging her best friend. She offered Draco a hug, too, and Hermione gave her a grateful smile. “So… we have a few small surprises for you, and I know how you hate surprises,  _ Hermione _ … but you didn’t get to have a wedding reception. And we have some people gathered here who love you, so we thought...” Ginny glanced at Harry, who grinned.

“Why not throw you a reception tonight?” Harry finished. “If that’s alright with  _ you _ .”

Hermione looked at Draco in surprise. She was tearful. Draco held out his hand to Harry and shook it firmly. “Thanks, mate.”

“It’s our pleasure,” Harry said. “But Hermione is as dear to me as a sister, and I’ve never seen her this happy, or settled.”

“You deserve it! But if you cry  _ now _ , Hermione Granger, you will not survive going inside this house!” Ginny cupped Hermione’s cheeks.

“Sorry!” Hermione laughed, blinking away threatening tears. Draco’s hand warmed the small of her back as they followed Ginny into the house. 

White flowers spilled from vases on the steps of the grand staircase and pine branches swagged from every doorway. Candlesticks on the entry table bore silver candles and a host of small packages, and a sign in Ginny’s handwriting indicated ‘Gifts for Hermione and Draco’. Draco reached for her hand and squeezed.

Ginny and Harry ushered the couple towards the great room, which Hermione knew boasted a stately fireplace and a great many comfortable chairs and sofas for lounging. A soft din of excited voices wafted down the hallway. They paused outside the door. “Wait here for a moment,” Ginny said. She slipped into the room and shut the door behind her.

Harry grasped Hermione’s shoulder. “‘Mione, there’s another surprise waiting for you inside. Draco, here, had a marvelous idea, and I took it upon myself to make it possible. So this particular surprise is really from him. But you’ll need this--” he handed her a large white handkerchief, “and take your time. They’re still getting their bearings.” Harry patted Hermione’s hand and slipped inside the room.

Hermione frowned. “Who’s getting their bearings?” 

He took her hands in his. “My love, you made it possible for me to spend Christmas with my mother,” Draco said softly. “That is a luxury I could never have dreamed of before I found you.” He brushed her cheek. “There are two people you want to be in your life more than anyone else.”

Her eyes widened and filled with glassy tears. She shook her head. “It can’t be,” she whispered. “They’re not safe, they won’t even know me--”

“Shhh.” Draco wrapped her in his arms. “They won’t know you as  _ you _ . That is true. But they are safe now that the war is over, and they can acquaint themselves with you now that they’ll be living in England. Oxford, actually. Better for your father’s health.” He smiled and Hermione’s fingers found his jaw as she tried to understand what he had just said. She shook her head again, disbelieving the truth of the matter even as it became more clear. 

“You brought me my parents?” 

He nodded. “Yes.”

Tears streamed down her cheeks. “How? How is that possible?” she sniffled. “How do I talk to them?”

He took the handkerchief and dabbed at her chin, where drops had collected. “They’ve recently become acquainted with our host, who invited them here to meet his family and celebrate a recent marriage. So we will go in, we may introduce ourselves, and then be yourself.”

“Nobody…” she sobbed, covering her face. Draco smoothed her hair and she pressed her forehead to his chest. “Nobody has ever given me something like this.”

“Then we’re even.” Draco stepped back so he could get her to look at him again. “Here, darling.” He handed her the handkerchief. “You can cry all you want to when we get home but we have a party waiting in there, filled with people who love you. Let’s go in?”

She laughed despite herself and wiped at her eyes. She blew the most attractive honk into the handkerchief and sniffled away the last of her tears, for now. Draco took the handkerchief before she could protest and stuffed it into his back pocket, where it would be hidden by his robes. He kissed her good.

“How have they reacted to the… whole magic thing?”

Draco laughed. “Molly and Arthur gave them a crash course in wizarding life, and apparently they took it quite well. And a shot of whiskey helped your father, I am told.”

“That’s so like my dad,” she giggled.

Ginny peeked into the hall. “Are we composed?” she asked innocently. Hermione nodded and grasped Draco’s hand tightly. Her hand shook, but he had her.

Ginny stepped back and swung the door wide. The great room, which had always been grand to Hermione, was a frosted winter wonderland. There were pine branches bedazzled with unmelting snow draped over the tops of bookshelves, while white fabric draped in large panels from the curtain rods puddled on the floor. The silver candles were repeated, but this time they hung in the air just out of reach of the ceiling beams. And the people… the Weasley family stood in full regalia, each with their own partners--Molly and Arthur in their tweeds, Bill and Fleur in floaty blues and greys, Charlie and a man Hermione didn’t recognize each in their dragon hide. Percy and the Twins each had a lady on their arms and wore their best robes (Hermione wondered why none of these women had been present at Christmas, but that was a conversation for Ginny for another time). Last but not least, Helen and Mark Granger stood with Harry; Mark wore a crisp tuxedo (either Draco or Harry’s doing), while Helen wore a dress that was a favorite of Molly’s, which was beautiful on her. 

The room exploded with joy as Hermione and Draco were swarmed with hugs from each Weasley. Glasses full of punch were placed into their hands, too, and somehow a small plate filled with quiche became Draco’s to balance, while Molly attempted to feed them both.

The general feeling that the Weasley’s were remorseful was drowned in genuine joy. These people weren’t just sorry, they were turning over a new leaf. Hermione and Draco were introduced to the Grangers, who were dazzled by the whole affair, and were happy to be making friends now that they had returned from Australia. When it was revealed that the Malfoys (as they were introduced… to make things easier, for now) were also going to be living in Oxford, Helen insisted they host them for tea. When Draco mentioned never having gone fishing, Mark committed to teaching him. The Grangers were retired and would help with their garden (Mark was a vegetable whiz, apparently), help Hermione decide whether or not to keep chickens (also Mark’s idea), and they knew the sort of things which would help newlyweds get settled in their first home.

It was not what Hermione had expected--if she had even been able to fathom meeting them again, she would have imagined her parents would be timid or quiet, but they were fully formed adults with opinions and senses of humor… it would be a special kind of joy getting to know them better.

At dinner in the equally marvelous dining room, Hermione and Draco were seated side-by-side at the long table, across from the Grangers, and flanked by Weasley siblings. Throughout dinner, it became clear that Charlie’s companion was his longtime partner, who he had decided he was ready to introduce to his family. His name was Dougal and he was quiet, but had a quick wit. Both Fred and George had apparently sought out their dates for this particular event, while Percy’s companion insisted they were ‘friends from work.’ 

Dinner was a magnificent affair ( Molly, Fleur, and the twins had spent the entire day cooking up this feast); every surface of the table was covered in a piece of china positively overflowing with food. The conversation was lively.

Draco was engaged in a fierce debate with Charlie and Dougal over the validity of a particular ancient viking text, which described ‘sky serpents with feathers’--Charlie insisted it could be any number of animals, given there was no mention of wings, while Draco was sure it was the right era for some of the first known recorded sightings of a particular Gallic creature that was very obviously a dragon. Hermione was trying to help Arthur reason out if the muggle toaster was a particularly easy device to curse with a trigger ward given that it could be unplugged in order to render it powerless (they agreed it would be difficult to curse any piece of muggle technology which didn’t have a continuous circuit of electricity running through it, unless your goal was to make it into a portkey).

As dinner wrapped up and each occupant of the table declared themselves stuffed to the gills, Harry stood and raised his glass.

“My friends, family. We’re here to celebrate the recent marriage of my dearest friend Hermione with one of my most trusted researchers, and may I say, the snappiest dresser that ever there was, Draco Malfoy."

“Here here!” Mark crowed and everyone chuckled.

“Draco, I am so glad you found my friend,” Harry said. “Hermione has had a life of many accomplishments, but also many losses. She can bear anything, I believe, but to know she doesn’t have to do so alone…” Harry winked at Hermione. Her eyes were shining again and she held out a hand to Draco. He handed over the handkerchief. “I’m so grateful. You hope your loved ones will find a fraction of your own happiness.” He took Ginny’s hand. She beamed at him. “But you can’t guarantee it. All you can do is hope that one day, they run into someone on the street, and that is it. That’s their person.”

Draco put his arm around the back of Hermione’s chair and she sniffled.

“Thank you,” Hermione mouthed to Harry. He nodded.

“Hermione, I have an offer for you, which may suit your new situation in Oxford,” Harry said. “It appears I am in need of a runic charms expert; the position would pay as well as your last position, but you’d have to work for the Ministry again, and this may be deal breaker… you’d have to answer to one of our most experienced researchers.”

“I could be amenable to that, but who would it be?” She asked. Harry’s eyes flicked to Draco.

“ _ Me _ ,” Draco said in surprise. “I’ve been trying to fill that position for ages! Nobody was qualified.”

“I know,” Harry laughed. “Hermione has always been a whiz at ancient runes but I never thought she’d leave her cushy job in Muggle Relations. And now she has. What do you say?”

Hermione looked at Draco. His eyes were crinkled at the corners in delight. “Could you put up with me every day, at work and at home?”

“I think so,” she smiled. “As long as you don’t mind.”

“You can schedule a formal interview with her if you’d like,” Harry teased. “But she comes with the Minister’s highest recommendations.”

Draco chuckled. “No, no. I would be silly to underestimate my wife; I’ve made that mistake only once.”

“Oh?” Helen asked. A rumble of laughter went round the table. “Do tell.” 

Hermione leaned over to mock-whisper, “I punched him in the face third year for being a bully.”

“Good girl,” Helen whispered back. Everyone laughed.

“So, Hermione? Will you take the job?” Harry asked.

“Yes, of course.”

“Hooray!” Draco kissed Hermione sweetly as the table applauded. Hermione wiped her eyes and laughed in disbelief. 

Draco stood and held up his own glass. “May I?” Harry sat and gave him the floor. Draco cleared his throat.

“Um. Thank you all for this gathering,” he said. “I must admit that for us--I think I can speak for both of us.” He checked in with Hermione. She nodded. “For us, this… marriage came as a surprise. You may or may not know that my parents arranged a marriage for me when I was quite young, and up until that arrangement was broken six months ago, I had assumed my life would be a lonely one. Apart from that, I have spent a decade or more trying to find some semblance of… normalcy, I guess? After the war, all of us were sort of reeling with no concept of how to move on, knowing as we did that there was real evil in our world.”

“Too true,” Arthur murmured.

“When you’ve been through something like that, anything otherwise ordinary which disrupts your status quo for the better feels important. A chance meeting with a girl you knew in school… a girl you tormented, a girl who rightly punched you in the nose third year for being a bully--” He touched her cheek and winked. “That felt important to me--enough that I scrambled for a reason to spend time with her. Maybe make amends, maybe not. It only took three hours that first day to confirm I was right about her being important.” He cleared his throat and felt himself getting emotional. “Hermione and me, we were always neck and neck in school. When I was a child, that felt like competition,” he said with a laugh. “But as adults, it feels like a match. She married me because she said it would solve my problems. I married  _ her  _ because Hermione has  _ never  _ been wrong.”

“Don’t you forget it!” Ginny called.

“Trust me, I won’t. It has been a matter of days, but I love her.” Draco shrugged. “That’s it, isn’t it? That’s all that matters.”

Hermione stood. “Too right.” Draco was too emotional to go on, he shook his head and kissed her temple. “We’re very grateful,” Hermione said. “For each other, for all of you. ‘Lonely’ isn’t in our vocabulary any more. How could it be, when  _ this _ is how our friends show they care?”

“To Hermione and Draco!” Molly held up her glass. Everyone toasted to the couple.

After dinner, the party settled in the great room once more for drinks and small games. Fleur and Bill’s children were allowed to join the throng after Hermione insisted; the littlest one, Louis, adored Hermione, and the other two were old enough to sit with the twins and play several rounds of Go Fish. Draco and Ginny attempted to teach Mark how to play Wizard’s Chess, which he turned out to be a whiz at. Everyone else kicked their shoes off or sat by the fire, or chatted away. Hermione bounced Louis on her knee and Helen sat beside her.

“I envy Molly,” Helen admitted quietly to Hermione. Louis held out a hand to Helen and wrapped his tiny fingers around one of hers. Hermione silently watched her mother dote on the baby. “I would’ve liked to have a little grandchild.”

“Do you want to hold him?” Hermione asked. 

“Could I?” Hermione passed the baby over to Helen, who happily accepted him onto her lap. “We weren’t able to have any of our own,” Helen said softly. “But that’s life, you know. C’est la vie.”

“I haven’t been able to have a relationship with my parents,” Hermione managed. “It can be hard, when you see other families like this. Sometimes.”

“Yes,” Helen said. “We had a small community in Australia, but most of our friends were childless, too, so it made it easier not to mind. But it is so wonderful to be around children, don’t you think?”

Louis cooed and blew a little bubble. Both women laughed. “I agree.” 

“Do you think you and Draco will want to have children?” Helen asked.

“We’d like to get more established, but we both want to.”

“How long have the two of you been together? Draco made it sound like it has been a matter of days.”

“It has,” Hermione admitted. “It’s been… five days. We’ve been married for three. But we knew each other in school years ago. In those days, we saw each other at our worst.”

Helen shook her head in amazement. “It must have been love at first sight. Or second sight, as it were.”

“You know, it’s not about how he looked that day--although he is handsome and he knows I think so--so much as the fact that he was calm, kind, and gentle with me. I am honored he let me see the best in him right away.”

“He has no air of judgment.” They watched Draco, who was hunched over the chess board with Mark. They were laughing and arguing in a light-hearted manner about something.

“He used to, but that was about fear, as a boy.” Draco caught Hermione watching him. His whole face transformed into pure sweetness and he beamed at her. “When you teach a scared boy he deserves to be loved, he might believe it.”

Draco strode over and wrapped his arms around Hermione from behind the couch. He kissed her cheek. “Darling, Mark is beating me soundly at chess! I may have to renounce my title.”

“Poor dear,” Hermione giggled. 

“Draco, do you like babies?” Helen asked innocently. She held out Louis as an offering. 

Draco happily reached over the couch and grabbed the child, balancing him in one arm. “Louis, my boy!” The baby cackled and extended his little fingers to poke Draco’s face.

“I think the answer is yes, my husband  _ does _ like babies.” Hermione sighed happily. That was the first time she had said it out loud. It felt good. Draco took Louis away to share in the cooing delight with Mark and Ginny. 

Helen touched Hermione’s hand. “Hermione, if you need anything once you’re in Oxford, please reach out to me.” Hermione squeezed her hand and held back the tears that wanted to escape. “I know you’ll be fine, but it’s nice to have a friend.”

“Likewise,” Hermione said. “We can stick together. Find the best place for a good brunch, maybe?”

“I do  _ love _ a Sunday brunch.” Helen and Hermione lauded the best parts of brunch for a while. 

When once the baby began to yawn and tucked his little head against Draco’s chest, Bill and Fleur decided it was best if they took their leave. The party drew to a gentle close; the twins and their dates insisted a triple date was in order with Draco and Hermione, while the rest of the Weasley siblings agreed they should all get together at least once a month. Draco and Hermione saw everyone out, including Mark and Helen, who Harry had arranged to travel by portkey back to Oxford. Mark took down Draco’s telephone number (a device he had acquired while living in exile, but rarely used), and promised to keep an eye out for a house for them with a decent-sized garden. Helen embraced Hermione. When their portkey whisked them off the front steps, Hermione laid her head on Draco’s shoulder and sighed.

“How long have you been working on that?” she asked him.

“Since you told me that first day they weren’t a part of your life.” Draco kissed her head. “Harry’s been working out the details; apparently he has contacts in Australia who were able to find them and casually suggest England was a perfect place to retire.”

Hermione snorted. “Thank goodness they agreed; if it were me, I might have chosen Mallorca.”

“Are you happy?”

She wrapped her arms around his waist. “I am happier than I thought was possible. As of tonight, I have a new position with my  _ husband _ at Oxford, my parents are back in my life for good, and my friends have outdone themselves to make amends. What more could there possibly be?”

“That  _ baby _ was adorable.” Draco raised an eyebrow and grinned.

“You want a baby?” she laughed.

“The thought holding a little one who looks a bit like both of us? Yes, I like that idea very much.” 

“We won’t have a moment alone until the child goes to school.”

“Hmm…” he paused, kissing her deeply. Hermione teased the little hairs on his nape. “Maybe we’ll wait a bit,” he said huskily. Hermione winked.

Harry and Ginny helped pack all of their gifts into a bag with an extension charm and loaded several platters of pastries and desserts for them to take home. Harry promised they hadn’t paid any great expense for the party, which Hermione knew to be a scandalous falsehood. Ginny pulled Hermione away briefly to her bedroom for a little chat.

“I hope you both enjoyed this evening!” Ginny rifled through her closet for something.

“It was perfect, Gin.” 

“Good!” Ginny emerged from the closet with a small red gift bag. “Here. You have to open this now.”

Hermione hesitantly took it. “What is it?”

“It’s a stag gift! In lieu of a stag do. Luna contributed, too. She’s sorry she’s not here but she and Neville had a special appointment they couldn’t miss.”

Hermione pulled the tissue from the bag and inside was something made of fabric… embroidered delicately, but against a sheer panel. It was black. “Did you get me sexy lingerie?”

“Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t.”

The black fabric was liberated from the bag and sure enough, it was a delicate nightgown with equal parts lace, mesh, and ribbon. It was intricate, and Hermione held it up proudly. “This is beautiful, Ginny! Thank you!”

“You’re not embarrassed?” Ginny cringed.

“No! I love it. It’s fabulous.”

“Phew. I figured it was better than a tiara made from penises or something, like we did for Padma’s stag.” She shuddered. 

“Definitely,” Hermione laughed. She hugged her best friend. “Thank you so much.”

“You deserve it all.” Ginny kissed her cheek. “Draco’s speech was so lovely.”

“I imagine he’s going to surprise me with little moments like that for a long time. After holding Louis all evening, he told me he wants a baby,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes. “But I reminded him we’d never get alone time for things like  _ this _ \--” she held up the nightgown, “so he agreed to wait a while.”

“Good,” Ginny laughed. “Besides, you wouldn’t want to steal Luna’s thunder, would you?”

Hermione’s eyes grew wide and she clapped her hands. “Oh gods! Is Luna pregnant?”

“They aren’t announcing it until she’s in her second trimester, but she gave me permission to tell  _ you _ .”

“Oh, we are going to spoil that child  _ rotten _ !” 

Hermione and Ginny chattered away, arm in arm (and sexy lingerie safely stowed back in the gift bag), and returned to the great room to make their final farewells. Harry and Draco were talking solemnly, but as soon as the ladies entered, their faces broke into wide smiles. 

Harry shook hands with Draco and clasped his shoulder meaningfully. “Hermione, you have married a wise fellow! I’d like to get your advice on all that, Draco, but it’s getting late. I’ll owl you next week.”

“Happy to help however I can,” Draco said.

Draco and Hermione finally arrived home close to midnight; Ermina was snoring away in the armchair with Crookshanks in her lap, and they did their best not to disturb her. They closed themselves in the bedroom and Hermione cast a discreet silencing charm. She had him help her with the buttons on the back of her dress, and they snuggled into matching pyjamas, which Molly had sewn for them. Once they were in bed, Hermione with her haid cradled on Draco’s chest, he let out a long breath.

“Luna’s pregnant,” Hermione said softly.

“Oh, bully for them! I’m sure they’ll make wonderful parents.”

“I think so, too.” She closed her eyes and tucked her head under his chin. “What was Harry asking you about?”

“Harry asked me if I thought we were doing enough to take care of older wizards and witches, especially those like my mother who are in hospice care because of war-related maladies. He also mentioned unwitting muggle victims, like your parents,” he said. He rubbed Hermione’s arm.

“What did you tell him?” Hermione pushed herself up.

He shook his head. “I said No. We could be doing so much more.”

Hermione touched his eyebrow. “You have a big heart, my love.”

“You have made it so. I told you when we visited my mother--all of this? This party, our new prospects… it’s all your fault.”

“I didn’t make you or our friends do any of those lovely things,” she protested.

“Hermione, you are a good person. You make other people want to be good. I want to endeavor to deserve you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay on this latest chapter, I was writing a short fic for a Valentine's Day exchange.
> 
> Just one or two chapters left before we wrap this baby up. :) Let me know what you think!


	12. Steady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione sets Ron straight and takes her final vow with Draco, in their new home.

Hermione’s flat was situated above the accounting firm of Marsh and Finkle, which never received any visitors; she suspected Marsh and/or Finkle had passed years ago, but nobody ever came to check on the place and she paid her rent every month through the mail slot all the same. She had submitted her intent to vacate the same way, and received a short note the next day, thanking her for being a good resident. The building bore two doors, side by side, sheltered by a large, green awning with a faded logo for M&F Accounting; the right door was Hermione’s. She always kept a wreath on the door, framing a lion door knocker. Today, she removed that wreath and packed it into a crate, along with her potted plants and a bag of decorations she used to change the wreath each season.

It had taken a few days, but the Grangers had found a perfectly lovely cottage for sale through their muggle realtor, so Draco had gone to Oxford for the day to take a look at it and make sure it would suit. They were hoping for something with three bedrooms, one of which would be Ermina’s, and of course a garden fit for a multitude of ideas. The grey skies would prevent Draco from being too dazzled if the cottage wasn’t suitable--he had told her before he left that a sunny day in Oxford was enough to find a public toilet agreeable. It was indeed a dreary day--soft rain had been falling all morning, but it gave Hermione a chance to pack her flat for their move without inducement to pop out on errands to enjoy the sunshine. She wore Draco’s green jumper and cozy tracksuit bottoms. 

In her trouser pocket, Draco’s coin was warm.

She didn’t think she had many things, but trying to pack it all into organized boxes was proving tricky. Apparently Draco didn’t have many belongings, other than his well-curated wardrobe, for which he had an armoire with an extendable charm. According to Ermina, he was so simple otherwise as to be boring, and it was reflected in the utter lack of decorations in his Oxford rooms. Ermina seemed bothered by his simplicity, but it was comforting to Hermione that the joy he took from life wasn’t derived from his possessions. And anyway, it would make her feel more comfortable about liking little chatzakis and owning an aging cat. Draco had assured her he was happy to have her make their new house feel like a home, whatever it meant to her. Or what it meant for them.

Had the Manor ever felt like home, for him? 

Did Narcissa hang a funny painting in the loo to make her family laugh? 

Did Lucius have a chair he always left a jumper hanging over, even when his wife complained? 

Was there a corner Draco kicked his shoes into so he didn’t track mud through the house? 

Hermione’s throat was tight. He had done so much work to be in a good place, but he needed a home. He would have it with her, if she had anything to say about it. He’d have a hook to hang his coat on, and a pillow to lay his head, and everything they put into their new home would come in pairs--his and hers. But first, she had to finish packing up her flat, including their recent gifts from the Weasley bunch.

The wedding gifts they had received at Harry and Ginny’s house had been mostly practical--a collection of small muggle appliances from Molly and Arthur would give them no end of entertainment in the kitchen, while Harry and Ginny’s present of a mapped image of their birth constellations was more dear, more sentimental. It would hang in their new bedroom, above her dressing table. Luna and Nevilla gave them seeds for their first garden, Charlie and Dougal gave them matching pairs of dragonhide boots from their beloved Harriet, a Antipodean Opaleye who had passed away last year, and the twins had given them ‘erotic candies’, which had mysteriously caught on fire the moment Hermione threw them into the trash. Bill and Fleur had given them a book dedicated to deciding whether or not having children was the right choice, and Hermione had already dog-earred it to death (she was leaning towards No at this particular moment, as she packed approximately fifty spoons--how does  _ one woman _ accumulate so many spoons??).

She bumped into Demetrius’ perch in the kitchen and nearly sent it crashing into the window; ever since Draco had moved in with his own owl, she hadn’t needed him for anything, so her barn owl was being well cared for by her former assistant, Natalie. Draco’s white owl, Angelique, spent her time in the spire of the church kitty-corner to Hermione’s flat, where she could be enticed down with a treat if a letter needed sending.

Insistent knocking echoed through the flat. Hermione frowned. Who could it even be? Anyone she cared about would’ve come through the floo. Draco wasn’t due back until dinner, and Ermina popped in and out at will. Hermione wiped her dusty hands on a towel and secured her messy top knot a bit more. She hopped down the stairs and opened the door to a soaked Ron Weasley. 

“Hi,” she peeped, clearing her throat. 

He furrowed his brow. “Is this a bad time?”

“No, I… no.” She crossed her arms.

Ron looked pointedly at her jumper and realization of who it came from passed over his face. Still, he persisted. “Can I come in?”

“No.” Hermione looked down at the doormat, which reminded her she needed to pack it still. “I’m packing, the place is a disaster.”

“So. You are moving.” Rain sloughed off the end of Ron’s nose; he had obviously been out in the elements for a long while. 

Hermione closed the door and stepped out under the awning. “Yes. Only a matter of days.”

“Where?”

“Near my parents,” she said. 

“Your parents? Are they...” He gestured towards his head to finish the thought. Did they know her? Were their memories returned? Did they have their wits about them? Or was she intimating a move to Australia, far beyond the reach of his manic outbursts… He could mean anything.

“More or less,” she peeped. 

“I’m glad. How did that happen?”

“Draco and Harry worked it all out. It was kind of a… wedding gift.” She twisted the ring on her hand.

“I heard everyone got together. I wasn’t invited.”

“And that came as a surprise, did it?” Hermione snapped. “After you showed your arse on Christmas Eve.”

Ron toed the ground. “Well. I should have liked an invitation, nonetheless.”

“Bad enough you were at my wedding when nobody wanted you there.” Her cheeks flushed immediately, but she didn’t regret saying it. She hadn’t wanted him to be there--all signs had indicated he wouldn’t be supportive. And he wasn’t. Quite the opposite. Still, she couldn’t help but feel that total evisceration wasn’t the answer to his ignorance.

“Right.” He tried to put his hands in his pockets, but his trousers were too wet. “You’re upset. I’m still trying to… wrap my head around that. Is he here right now?” Hermione shrugged. Ron nodded, taking that as confirmation. “Can you help me understand?” he asked softly.

“Understand what?” 

Ron wiped his face on his sleeve. “It’s the timing, Hermione. It’s mental! After  _ less than a week _ , you decided Fuck It! Let’s get married.”

“It’s not that simple.” She shook her head.

“Isn’t it? Oh, do tell.”

Hermione sighed. “Why can’t you accept it’s more complicated?”

“Because that was supposed to be me!”

“It’s been  _ eight years _ .”

“ _ Yeah _ , but--” He crossed his hands on top of his head in frustration and turned away from her. He took a haggard breath and whipped around, arms flailing. “I thought you’d see that we’d been kidding ourselves all this time, thinking we weren’t right for each other! And then the ring on your finger would’ve come from Me.” He shook his head. He pointed to the upstairs window. “Instead, it’s  _ him _ . I still remember you screaming in Malfoy Manor, helpless to do anything, while his  _ aunt _ tortured you. He was there! He didn’t do anything to help you! He’s a coward with a mark on his arm to prove it--”

Hermione stepped out from under the awning and slapped him. The sting crackled against his wet skin. Ron grabbed his cheek and looked down ashamedly. “I deserve that.”

“Not that you care,” she spat, “but Draco was  a victim, too. He did what he could to keep his mother from danger and stay alive. It’s what any of us would have done.” She tried to go back inside but he grabbed her arm.

“So that’s why you married him? Because you both have trauma?”

She held up a hand to silence him. “That’s enough.”

“I want to be friends, ‘Mione, but I can’t understand--”

“Tough!”

“Do you want me to beg for forgiveness? What?” He knelt down in the dirt and Hermione wrenched her arm out of his grip. She hauled him up by the front of his shirt.

“Merlin’s sake, Ronald! Have a little bloody dignity. Go to therapy. Get yourself together.” She released him and brushed her hair off of her face, where it was encouraging the rain to run down into her eyes. “Leave me  _ alone _ .” She turned to go back inside, fists clenched.

“Wait, ‘Mione!”

“Keep it short.”

“Do you love him?” Ron asked.

“Ron--”

“Please. Tell me.”

“I do.” She sighed. “I don’t care if it doesn’t make sense to you--”

“It does. Make sense to me.” He sighed. “I wanted to know. It means you’ll be happy.”

Hermione glared daggers at him. She whirled around to go inside and Draco stood in the open doorway, surprise evident on his face. “Hi,” he said softly as Hermione pushed past him. “Is the drowning weasel coming inside?”

“No.” She didn’t look back at Ron and Draco secured the door behind her. 

She stomped up the stairs. Draco followed, but slowly, as she barreled through the small flat. The kitchen cupboards flew open as she angrily ripped dishes out and clanked them on the counter. A water glass slipped as she set down, hitting the tile just right to shatter in her hands and cut her palm. “Shit!” She grasped her wrist and held her hand over the sink. There were small pieces stuck in her skin and she was bleeding.

Draco held his hands under hers. “Alright, calm down--”

“I am calm!” she spat, trying to pick out the glass. She was shaking too much. Draco grasped the back of her hand.

“Clearly.” He pulled the pieces out one by one and Hermione winced. Once the glass was removed fully, she ran her hand under the faucet as long as she could stand it. Draco pulled out his wand. “ _ Episkey, _ ” he muttered. The cuts healed and Hermione immediately went to work moving all of the broken glass into the bin. She didn’t look at him. “What did Ron want?” Draco asked. 

“Same bollocks, different package,” she said. She pulled out her wand to levitate the remaining pieces and Draco grasped her wrist gently.

“Love, can you put the wand down until we can talk a bit?”

Hermione’s cheeks reddened. “What, am I too emotional to handle packing my own things?”

“You are obviously upset, and given the tail end of that conversation, I have no doubt the rest was equally upsetting.” Draco coaxed the wand from her fingers and set his hands on her shoulders. “But you don’t deserve to carry around all this anger, so if you want to talk about it, I’m here.”

Hermione glared at him. “What did Ron say to you on Christmas Eve?”

Draco stepped back and gave her a gentle shake of the head. “I won’t tell you, love. It was utter shite, and if I tell you, it means I am giving credence to it. If I keep it to myself, the lies die with me.”

She poked him in the chest. “If it was about me, I deserve to know!” Draco took her face in hand.

“It wasn’t. Take comfort in that.” He kissed her forehead and stepped around her to help pull glassware out of the cupboard.

“What happened to talking about it?”

Draco smiled down at her grumpy face and chuckled. “Do as I say, not as I do.”

“Draco, I’m serious!” Hermione tugged on his arm. “I want to know what he said to you. It matters to me; if you’re hurt, I’m hurt.”

He kissed her softly. “Sweet girl,” he sighed. “You’ve already told him where you stand on everything; why would I want to hurt your feelings with more of his nonsense?”

Hermione curled her fingers into the front of his shirt. “It’s my job to protect you--and I didn’t. I took you to the Burrow, despite my gut telling me it was a bad idea, and you got hurt!”

“I’m not hurt. He can’t touch me.” Draco looped his arms around her waist and lifted her up onto the kitchen table. He stood between her knees and she wrapped her arms around him. 

“Please. Summarize it, at least.” Hermione rubbed the nape of his neck. Draco pressed his forehead to her shoulder and sat back enough to look at her.

“He mentioned my father,” he said. “The trial. What should’ve happened to my mum and me, what he thought I did to get acquitted.” He hugged her close again, to spare himself the utter look of pity on her face. “But he can’t hurt me, Hermione. I promise. I--I have you, what could touch me, now?”

Hermione let out a long breath. “Why are you so bloody reasonable?” She rubbed his back.

“I went to therapy while I was in Oxford today, so that helps,” he said with amusement.

“Did you?”

“Mmm. They could squeeze me in, it was a good opportunity to go. I did miss six months of appointments.” Draco stepped back from her. “Now, shall we call a moratorium on any conversation about the weasel so I can tell you about our new home?”

“I’m still grumpy with you, but I suppose.”

“Why?” he laughed.

“You don’t have to bear anything alone anymore, Draco Malfoy! Don’t keep things from me.”

“What if I want to do something nice for you as a surprise, like a birthday party or something?”

“Don’t! I hate surprises! I always cry.”

“You’re not crying, now.”

“I’m too mad to cry.”

“I see. Well, you look adorable in my jumper.” He gave her a peck on the nose.

“Thank you,” she huffed. “It’s comfortable.”

“Should I expect you to steal other items of my clothing?”

“Steal’ implies you might recover them once I get my hands on them. This is my jumper now!”

Draco curled his fingers under the hem, tickling her waist. “We’ll see about that. Please, I’m dying to tell you about our little cottage! I can’t bear it anymore.”

Hermione’s eyebrow crooked towards her hairline. “And… that is contingent upon my removal of this jumper?”

“Madam!” he gasped in mock horror. “I would never insinuate such a thing!”

“Oh, well.” Hermione hopped up off the table and padded towards the living room, crossing her arms over her waist and rucking up the hem of the sweater. “Just to be safe, though…” She pulled it over her head and shot him a daring look over her shoulder as she disappeared around the corner. Draco darted after her without a second thought.

***

Four and a half miles south of the flat of Helen and Mark Granger sat a georgian family home with  _ five  _ bedrooms (“Draco, that’s way more space than we need! We can’t afford something like that--” “Yes we can, and so what? We’ll knock down a wall between two of them and build you a library.”) and a large garden, which kissed up to the edge of a nature preserve. The shutters were hanging on by a nail and a prayer, and the trim was about ten years overdue for a refresh, but it had a lot of heart and a hearth in every room. Mark and Helen had a cleaning service in before they brought the first box through the threshold, and by the time Hermione saw the place, the windows were so clean that light came streaming through in sheets. The Weasley twins helped with the heavy lifting, while Helen and Molly helped Hermione decide which rooms needed which angle. Ermina was requested to choose her bedroom before anything more could be done; she chose the smallest room, which had a large bay window and built-in bookshelves.

For the main bedroom, Hermione chose a room with light teal flowered wallpaper with vines crawling towards the upper molding and a marble surround on the fireplace. Every bedroom had wallpaper, and she thought better of the red and green striped room, despite the footprint being slightly larger. Her dark wood headboard would look lovely against the teal wallpaper, and there was room for Draco’s armoire in-between the windows. Hermione’s vanity fit on the opposite wall, with their constellation print hanging above it as she had envisioned.

They didn’t have much in the way of furniture, not enough to furnish every room; Draco’s old bed went into the blue bedroom, their sofas faced off in the sitting room with Hermione’s low coffee table between them and Narcissa’s chiming clock on the mantle. Draco’s small glass and metal bistro table set became their outdoor patio seating, and Hermione’s farmhouse table would do as part island, part kitchen seating. The other rooms were a bit sparse, and they were sorely in need of bookshelves, but it was a good start.

As the sun set on moving day, Mark handed Draco a bag of italian take-out and a bottle of wine, Helen kissed Hermione’s cheek, and the twins absconded, just overnight, with Crookshanks to give him a much-needed bath. Ermina escaped to her room and locked herself inside.

Hermione settled on the sitting room rug in front of the fire, while Draco searched out a pair of glasses for their wine. All he could find, temporarily, were blue toile teacups, but it was just as well. Hermione stoked the fire. The light from the flames danced off the tall ceilings. 

“We need rugs,” Hermione said, twisting a forkful of spaghetti. “This room begs a cushy rug.”

“Is that your only complaint? We need some rugs?” Draco wrinkled his nose. “Look at this wonderful place, darling! This is our home now. Rugs be damned.”

“I’m sorry! It’s lovely. You did great.” She leaned over and kissed him sweetly. Draco licked his lips shortly after and cringed. 

“Mmm, spaghetti.”

“Spaghetti kisses are all I’ve got! I’m ravenous. Nice of...Mark and Helen to feed us.”

Draco sat back against the table and considered her. “Are you alright with that?”

“What? Not calling them my parents?” Draco nodded and she shrugged. “It’s been some time since I could call them that. Molly and Arthur have been my parents more than they have, considering everything. I’m glad to have them around.”

“It might be hard to shake them now,” Draco laughed. “Mark is insistent that he help install our new shutters--after he makes them, and paints them, and power-washes the siding.”

“He’s persistent.”

“Remind you of anyone?” He touched her chin. “My favorite of your qualities, Ms. Granger.”

“Is it?” Hermione’s head was swirling from wine and tiredness.

“Mmm. That and your barmy hair.”

Hermione adjusted her poofy bun and laughed. “This is my party hair, I’ll have you know! Merlin’s ghost, Draco… what day even is it?”

Draco did the calculations in his head. “It’s… the thirty-first. Cor--it’s New Year’s Eve, Hermione!”

“Cheers!” She held up her teacup and he clinked it with his own. They both drank deeply.

“Do you need a refill?” He held up the bottle.

Hermione held out her cup and he filled it to the brim. “Thank you, love.” Draco kissed her and sat back again, forking lasagna into his mouth. He offered her his spare napkins when she spilled a bit of pasta on her tracksuit bottoms, and took the soiled paper back again, stuffing it into the plastic bag which had delivered their food. Hermione watched his motions and sighed, happily. She set her to-go container on the ground and closed it. “I have a theory about you--do you want to hear it?”

“Shoot.”

“I think… and this is partially the wine speaking… you have felt, since the war…” She cleared her throat and reached for his hand. Draco offered his own and rubbed her fingers. “You’ve felt compelled to take care of someone else. And for reasons I still don’t fully understand, you chose me.” Hermione sat up on her knees and pressed her other hand to his heart. “I might need too much care, sometimes. I might ask for too much, I will forget teacups beside my bed. I haven’t lived with someone consistently since I had the dorms at Hogwarts, so I don’t know how to live with someone else--I’m bad at doing my laundry consistently--I mean, really bad! I have a lot of clothes, I can go eons without doing the wash and not run out of knickers--”

“Ermina will take care of that,” Draco laughed.

“No! I don’t want her to! She’s important to you, but she’s not my mother or my servant, Draco. I’m telling you this because you need to know I need comfort--being comforted is something I crave. You’ve spent the last… hell,  _ week _ being my one source of comfort. And I’m scared you’re going to wake up tomorrow with buyer’s remorse about this lovely home because I forced you to marry me--”

Draco pressed his lips against hers firmly. He forced her to sit up on her knees and held her against his body. “Shhh,” he urged her. “You don’t have to worry. I could never regret choosing you.”

“What if you do?” Her eyes were full of tears, born of equal parts exhaustion and anxiety. 

He shook his head. “No. I won’t. I may not have taken a formal vow to promise it, but I agreed to you. Buying this house for us was a dream come true.”

“What if we just say it, now?”

“You want vows?” Draco held their clasped hands against his lips and Hermione nodded. “Alright. But you have to stand up in front of this fireplace with me, it’s only right.” Draco helped Hermione stand and he took both of her hands in his. “This will be extemporaneous, if it’s all the same to you.”

“It’s better that way,” she peeped.

Draco squeezed her hands. “Hermione Jean Granger,” he began, mouth quirking into a smile as she immediately teared up. “How did we get here? My daft, beautiful witch. Once upon a time, I was a little snot-nosed boy with gelled hair, trying to emulate my father and fight my way through school, and the next thing I know… I’m married to the sexiest, smartest woman in the entire world. I would be the biggest fool to squander that gift. 

“Hermione, I promise I will always support your impulses and drive. Your gut is never wrong. I won’t let you forget it. I promise never to make you feel like an inconvenience or burden; I will never dismiss your feelings. We will talk through any problem we might face. I am on your side. Forever. Unless it comes to our bed, and I’ll stick to my side. 

“You will always be safe with me--intimately, you are my equal and your expression of the connection between us is important to me. I will worship you. Mentally, you are my equal. Your intellect is aspirational, and I cannot wait to work alongside you. Emotionally, you are my equal. You will teach  _ me  _ how to love better, and be loved, openly and without shame or fear.

“I love you. I promise to never let you forget it.”

Hermione stammered, but nothing came out. She openly cried. Tears streamed down her face and Draco had to use both hands to wipe her cheeks. “Your turn?” he offered. She sniffled.

“I don’t know if I can talk,” she hiccoughed.

“Try, sweetheart.”

She sniffed again and gripped his shirt. “Alright. Whew. I got this.”

“You do. You’re strong.”

“Okay. Whew. Draco Lucius Malfoy,” she began. “I have been alone for so long, and I’ve always… longed. For this.” She tugged on his shirt for emphasis. “That when I reach out my hands, there’s someone there for purchase. And not just anyone--someone who is reaching back for me.”

“I am.” He held her tight, arms folding her into his chest.

“I promise to help you remember that you have so much to offer this world,” she said. “When the past presses down on you, I will shoulder the burden of memory. You will not be subject to shame in my house. Every meal we share, every memory we make is a count towards healing, even when we don’t remember anymore why we needed it. I will help you process whatever you need. I will hold you if you need it, because you don’t have to be strong all the time. I will love you as long as you let me. I have been  _ hoping  _ for someone to love me for a decade… but I’ve just been looking for  _ you _ .”

The clock on the mantle chimed twelve times--Narcissa’s clock. Midnight.

“Auld Lang Syne, and all that,” Draco murmured against her mouth.

"Draco, give me your hand," she said. She held out her hand for his left, which he offered her immediately. Hermione cuffed his sleeve methodically, until his forearm was bared. His bare arm. Where once a dark, ugly mark had been. Draco's eyebrows knitted together and he buried himself in shoulder--he couldn't believe that his arm was bare. He had no Dark Mark to speak of. Draco was completely free. 

"You are free," she said. "This is a new year, my love. You are completely free."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go! How do you want to see Hermione and Draco wrap up this journey?


	13. Security

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and Draco get the news of a lifetime.

Hermione’s first month on Draco’s team at Oxford had been interesting, to say the least. Draco heard no end of jokes from his colleagues (“You were gone for six months and you come back married to an expert in Ancient Runes? And she  _ likes you? _ ”) but Hermione fit in well. It was much easier for Hermione to adapt to an environment where every day was spent with noses in books, discussing translations, than it had been for Draco at the beginning of his career. She was affable and adaptable. And annoyingly  _ correct _ . All the time.

It’s not that Draco minded that she was voracious - if anything it gave him flashbacks to their shared youth, colored by nostalgia and by how much he loved her, but she frequently pointed out when he was… incorrect. He could no longer pretend like he had any expertise in linguistics when his wife was so gifted in decoding the structure of antiquated spells. It was a good challenge--while he was still a skilled curse-breaker, Hermione understood form in a way he had yet to grasp. His team was impressed with her, too, especially his assistant, Jones--so much so that they gave control over one of their most recent identifications to Hermione.

It was a scroll which had been discovered in the Mediterranean Sea by a muggle fisherman, sealed within a cylinder made of clay. The fact that the scroll was undisturbed, despite being found underwater, made them certain it was of magical origins. Draco had at least determined it wasn’t cursed, so touching it wouldn’t do them harm. He had the scroll unfurled on his desk, corners weighed down under a sheet of acid-free plastic.

Hermione reached over his shoulder and traced the characters with her nail. “What did you say you think this is, Draco? Eastern European?” She squinted her eyes.

“Thracian,” he sighed. 

“No, it couldn’t possibly be Thracian.” She leaned over, forcing Draco to scoot off his chair to make way for her. He rubbed her arm affectionately, even if he was annoyed. She sat and held up a small magnifying glass. “Thracian may not be widely documented, but the documents we  _ do _ have resemble Greek symbols. This is more similar to Egyptian cuneiform, but not as illustrative. Do you think the university has access to any sources about Middle Eastern symbols?”

“I can ask. The Linguistics faculty has been reluctant to lend me anything from their personal library but I do know at least two of their researchers are studying ancient Middle Eastern culture.”

“What if I asked?” She batted her eyes at him. “Remember what Jones said? I’m  _ charming _ .”

“You’re something.” He leaned against the table, smirking. “The way you’re squinting at that scroll looks painful… are you sure you don’t need eyeglasses?”

“That’s my concentration face.”

“You stick your tongue out when you concentrate.  _ That _ is the face of a struggling woman.”

She waved her wand. “Do you want to walk like a struggling man?”

He crooked a brow. “Are you threatening me, Lady Malfoy?”

“I don’t need to threaten you. I’m investigating a discovery you haven’t been able to decipher,” she said, poking him in the chest with the tip of her wand. “I’m already winning.”

“Huh.” He grasped her shoulders, squeezing them warmly. “Blindingly smart wife with a competitive streak--who knew?”

“You tried to get Snape to change my potions grade fifth year so  _ you’d  _ be top of the class.”

“Wha--how did you know that?”

“I didn’t, it was a lucky guess,” she grinned. “But since you’ve admitted it… help me reach out to the Linguistics department? I’m lacking in my knowledge of Middle Eastern symbology. If this is what I think it is, we will need a key.”

Draco reached above her head for several texts. “In the meantime, here’s what little I’ve got on the subject.” He set them on the table. “I’ll pop over to Linguistics and bend Professor Stein’s ear. Want anything while I’m out?”

“Tea?”

“Tea it is.” Draco gave her a peck on the cheek and left her alone. 

Hermione pressed her chin to her palm and sighed. There was no way there was a connection with the text to Thrace, but there were many other possibilities for the text’s origins. A stir of excitement bubbled in her chest. 

So this was what it felt like not to have all the answers… It was a great big puzzle. A  _ career  _ of puzzles which needed solving, which required the nuance of human experience and a bit of empathy. And encyclopedic knowledge of ancient language, or access to the resources. Hermione traced one of the characters with a finger. Her stomach gurgled.

“Stein is amenable to helping us,” Draco said, returning to the office. “Though he’ll need more specifics on what you’re looking for before he makes his recommendations.” From his intonation, Hermione gathered that Stein had likely been reluctant to provide such help. But it was good news anyhow.

“Excellent!” She smiled. Draco set a cup of tea beside her and gave her a sweet kiss on the temple. He was always doing that when they were working alone; when their colleagues were around, he kept his hands and his lips to himself. But in his office--their office--he rewarded her for her presence with subconscious acts of love. Like bringing her tea, kissing her constantly, and seeking help from a professor she knew for a fact had butted heads with him on numerous occasions. He was much more open with his affections in general. Little soft touches in the morning when they first woke up, especially. He was always reaching out to her for purchase. It was her favorite thing about how they’d grown since moving to Oxford.

Hermione grasped the cuff of his jumper and he curled his fingers into her palm. “Draco, you have found evidence of Egyptian spells and curses written in hieroglyphs, right? That’s common.”

“Oh yes,” he said. “There’s a long tradition of wizards in the high courts of Egypt, and lucky for us, it is well documented.”

“I’d like to compare some of those texts to this one before I make any assertions about where it comes from.”

“I have some other text for you to analyse in the meantime, my love. You haven’t been reading the Prophet lately, have you?”

“...no? We’ve been a bit preoccupied, Draco. I barely find time to eat, let alone read a tabloid.”

“Well… you should.” Hermione looked up as he set the Daily Prophet before her. She unfurled the paper to see a truly mystifying sight, circled in red ink, in the midst of the third page. There was no photograph, but the font was larger than the surrounding print:

_ MALFOY, WHO? _

_ It is a coup, beloved readers--we have been made aware of a New Year’s Eve date between one member of the Golden Trio and the long-engaged heiress to the Malfoy fortune… that’s right! Ron Weasley and Pansy Parkinson attended a private dinner at the Parkinson residence to ring in the new year. Sources say Miss Parkinson has broken her engagement to our recently featured lip-locked bad boy, Draco Malfoy, so it’s game on for former Gryffindor Keeper, Ron Weasley! We only hope to catch a glimpse of the couple together in the near future. _

Hermione blinked. “Huh.” She folded the paper. “This is from  _ two weeks _ ago. Why am I only seeing this now?”

He blushed. “I waited to show you until I could reach out to Blaise--he’s the only one who will still speak to me from those days--and he confirmed it. Weasley was there. They came and left together and looked quite  _ familiar _ .” Draco cleared his throat. He squeezed her shoulder.

“That means… he confronted me and...” She frowned. “Went to her.”

“Apparently Pansy has been trying to get his attention since  _ we  _ were featured in the Prophet.”

“But she hasn’t tried to contact you?”

“No. I haven’t spoken to her since I broke the contract.”

“That’s so… frustrating isn’t the word. It’s…”

“Annoying? Under-handed?” Draco offered. “Just the sort of thing we’ve come to expect from the youngest Weasley son?”

“Yes, well. It slaps of  _ revenge _ , but against whom I can’t be certain. It’s not like you or I harbor any feelings for either party…” Her eyes flicked to him for reassurance and he heartily nodded. “Maybe they actually like one another? That would be… odd.” Hermione looked at her hand, which bore her wedding ring. Her eyes got wide and she looked at him with a queer smile on her face. “My darling husband, who I love so much…”

“Yes--I think that’s me?” He looked at her skeptically.

“What would you say to… finishing this passive-aggressive competition before it really ramps up?”

Draco sat on the edge of the desk, scratching his cheek. “And how do you propose we do that?”

“What if we offer Rita a shot at our story?”

“I don’t know if I want the whole world to know what we went through--”

She stood, putting her hands on his shoulders.“Our version of the truth. We’ll give her a peek at the husband and wife duo studying ancient curses, and how we balance home vs. work life.”

“...Have we figured out how to balance them?”

She shrugged. “We don’t take our work home with us and we leave all of our personal arguments at home.”

Draco scoffed, curling his fingers into her hips. “Don’t take our-- _ Last night _ we debated whether or not the Celts believed in resurrection spells until two am, and this morning you brought up the fact that Crookshanks coughed a hairball into my slippers  _ during our staff meeting _ . Thank goodness you didn’t tell them about the infernal cat jumping onto the bed while we--”

She put a finger to his lips. “See? It’s about balance.” Hermione smiled innocently.

Draco sighed. “Fine. But we get to write the copy  _ and _ hire the photographer.”

“Naturally. We’ll decide how we present to the world and when. Which reminds me--” she checked her watch. “I’m late for my meeting with Helen.”

“Is it four  _ already? _ ” Draco groaned. She had standing afternoon tea with Helen Granger on Fridays and it always wrenched her out of a productive interlude. Still, she took so much joy from getting to know her mother better, and it always set her up for a calm, restful weekend. He’d noticed how much more at ease she was, with a confidant. He tried not to be jealous; after all, the woman  _ had _ given birth to Hermione, and the Grangers  _ were _ the only people they knew in Oxford, aside from their colleagues. But a part of him was still getting used to the idea of… sharing her.

Hermione gave him a knowing smile and cupped his cheek. “Nearly, darling. Show the scroll to Stein? Ask him if they have any resources on cuneiform or syllabary keys in their Middle Eastern research.”

“Anything for you,” he sighed, resigning himself to the fact that the rest of his work day would be spent sitting across a desk from the most pedantic man ever to study linguistics, at the behest of his  _ wife _ . Torture, bloody torture. He gripped her blouse tightly so he might delay her a few moments longer. Sue him--he was addicted to her, even as she drove him crazy.

Hermione caught on to his rapidly-developing foul mood. She couldn’t help herself. Old habits die hard, as they say. “Poor baby. How will you survive my absence?” She wrapped both arms around his neck in as sweet and condescending a manner as she could muster. 

His eyes darkened. Draco hauled her against him so fast that the act of putting an arm to her back had rucked her blouse out of the confines of her skirt band, and his fingers met bare flesh. He glared at her through heavily lidded eyes and took her lips. She gasped into his mouth at his aggression. But not out of fear. Her fingers tugged on his hair and her nails dug into his skull in fine pin pricks. Draco resituated her so she straddled his knee and her skirt vacated her upper thighs in favor of pooling around their joined legs. He trailed one finger down her neck to the top button of her blouse, flicked it open... and then released her. He sidled out from between Hermione and the desk as if nothing had happened, leaving her thoroughly rumpled and stunned. He shuffled papers on the console table on the opposite end of the room. 

“You do this to me on purpose,” she said faintly, hastily buttoning her top button. “First the bleeding article and the stupid… bloody lips of a demon…”

“Now we’re even.” His tone was colored in amusement. Once Hermione had fixed her blouse and made herself look less debauched, Draco gave her a peck on the cheek and a swat on the rear. “I think we’ll weather our separation much the same.  _ Darling _ .”

Hermione made a show of annoyedly gathering her coat and bag and wrapping her scarf indignantly around her throat. “So help me, you better be waiting as god made you when I get home tonight…” she grumbled. 

“Toodle-oo! Love you, darling!” He waggled his fingers at her as she slammed the office door behind her. He raked a finger through his hair and chugged the entirety of her untouched cup of tea, temperature be damned. Married or not, she had always been able to utterly  _ undo _ him. 

And wasn’t that the best thing about her?

Aside from her gusto for  _ everything _ , including putting Weasley and Parkinson firmly in their places in the most calculated possible manner. She would’ve made an excellent Slytherin. Draco found himself chuckling. 

She was still so infuriating and brilliant and  _ sexy _ and probably would be for the rest of their lives, but… they had the rest of their lives to navigate a working relationship, at least, where he didn’t lose focus entirely at the thought of ravishing her. At home, he was content to be always needing her. Although… he hoped  _ that _ particular activity never lost its lustre, either. He would make sure of it. Even at his own peril. He unbuttoned his collar and breathed out slowly.

He had better get a move on if he was going to secure their valuable resources from the Linguistics department  _ and _ have enough time to get home and fulfill her...  _ request _ , so to speak. Maybe with the Kiss the Cook apron she had bought for him last week. And nothing else. Yes… that would do.

Draco hastened out of his office with the mysterious scroll under his arm in its protective cylinder.  _ For Hermione _ .

***

It took a week for them to settle on the proper wording for their story offering for the Daily Prophet; Hermione could easily mimic the conspiratorial tone the rag favored, but Draco insisted that through it all, they come out sounding respectable. She had agreed. The angle was ‘A Tour of the Malfoy-Granger Home’; a photographer had been selected to photograph their cottage (after dutiful help staging the interior from Helen, and an aggressive attack painting the outside shutters and trim at Mark’s behest), and then several portraits were taken of them together. Hermione had taken care to write captions for each included photograph (several of which featured their joined hands and wedding rings), and instructions on where they were to be printed within the contents of the article. It was a fluff piece, which made no mention of their prior appearance in the tabloid nor their hasty marriage, nor the length of their relationship. Only what they allowed that the world could know.

Also included was a letter of conditions for Rita Skeeter--how she was allowed to print it and any other information about them from that point forward. She had heartily agreed to its printing and had requested one main edit, for the sake of ‘gripping her readers’, which, after a stern visit from Draco, became a small tweak.

The printing of the story was also contingent upon Draco and Hermione not being mentioned in any article unless it was first subjected to their revision--and never again in the rumors or gossip stories on which the Prophet thrived. It was a solid end to what had been a most frustrating string of untruths. Draco had never been so relieved to secure that intimacy. He only hoped Hermione would see fit to make such a deal with Witch Weekly and put an end to the numerous articles about his zodiac and what it said about the size of his numerous valuable parts. 

Three days later, their piece appeared on the  _ second _ page of the Daily Prophet (there had been a foiled Gringotts break-in which took front page precedence) and bled onto the third, stopping above an advertisement for Zonko’s joke shop.

It read thusly:

> _ LOVE NEST EXCLUSIVE!  _ [ Rita’s one allowed edit]
> 
> By Rita Skeeter
> 
> _ This month, the Prophet was honored to be invited into the humble abode of not one but TWO of our most favorite Ministry Darlings! That’s right--Lord and Lady Malfoy, themselves! The cottage (if one can call such a fetching five-bedroom manor a cottage) sits on a street lined with cherry blossoms, which is only the beginning of its charms. Our reporter was welcomed into the coziest den (pictured below), lined in bookshelves positively spilling with tomes. It should come as no great surprise to our readers that the couple has such a well-stocked library--after all, they are two of the most important researchers in the field of ancient runes. We sat down with the couple to discuss what it’s like to work together and navigate their marriage! _
> 
> _ [inset photo: Hermione Granger, Lady Malfoy, seated beside her husband Draco, Lord Malfoy, in front of their grand tiled fireplace in the den.] _
> 
> _ RS: We’re honored to be invited into your home! _
> 
> _ Hermione Granger: We’ve hardly had time to receive visitors so this is a treat for us. _
> 
> _ RS: Busy, are we? _
> 
> _ Draco Malfoy: Yes, we’ve been buried in research for a new find out of Syria. Hermione has been translating a long-dead cuneiform-- _
> 
> _ HG: That’s pictograms, not unlike Egyptian Hieroglyphs. _
> 
> _ DM: Yes, quite.  _
> 
> _ RS: What’s it like working together? _
> 
> _ DM: Honestly? It’s a dream.  _
> 
> _ HG: We’ve been able to find such incredible things together--imagine being able to share the most amazing finds of your career with your partner. We’re so lucky. _
> 
> _ DM: Our styles are very compatible. _
> 
> _ RS: Oh really? So, who does what? _
> 
> _ HG: Draco’s specialty is curse-breaking and spell coding, so his job is to figure out the end goal of the text in the extant artifact, and then locate the end result. _
> 
> _ DM: And Hermione’s specialty is linguistics and runes, so she translates the forms so that together, we can break the curse or charm and render the artifact anodyne. _
> 
> _ HG: Our whole goal is to understand ancient civilizations of spellcraft, and therefore demystify the lines of magic which run through our magical society in contemporary terms. _
> 
> _ DM: It sounds stuffy, but we spend a lot of time staring at funny runes. [laughs] _
> 
> _ RS: Do you ever get on each other’s nerves? _
> 
> _ HG: [laughs] Of course! Nobody annoys me like him. _
> 
> _ DM: She means that lovingly. _
> 
> _ HG: I do. There’s nobody I’d rather be annoyed by. _
> 
> _ DM: It’s mutual, darling. _
> 
> _ RS: How do you balance your work and home life? It must be exhausting to be together all the time! _
> 
> _ HG: We have our own spaces--I have my little parlor, where I read my novels and do little projects for the house. And we have friends nearby, who help us stay grounded. _
> 
> _ DM: I cook a lot, too. And tend to the garden. The important thing is to maintain our own identities in our home space. _
> 
> _ [inset photo: Draco, sleeves rolled up, beside his greenhouse which boasts many tropical flowers and fruit plants] _
> 
> _ HG: We do that pretty well! _
> 
> _ DM: I agree. We don’t take our work home with us, which makes a big difference. _
> 
> _ RS: Really? You don’t talk about work at home, ever? _
> 
> _ DM: Well… we don’t take the hard stuff home. Anything which requires heavy thinking with our team is worked on at our office. Our home is our safe space. _
> 
> _ [inset photo: Green wingback chair, chenille blanket draped over the back. Crookshanks the cat inhabits the seat of the chair.] _
> 
> _ HG: We’ve spent enough time in our life weathering heavy things.  _
> 
> _ DM: [takes his wife’s hand] Yes we have. _
> 
> _ [inset photo: Draco and Hermione’s clasped hands and wedding rings] _
> 
> _ RS: Dare I say you seem quite content with this arrangement? _
> 
> _ HG: I think I can speak for both of us and say we are. _
> 
> _ DM: Yes. Very much so. _
> 
> _ HG: When you love a person so fully… their presence is anything but burdensome. _
> 
> _ DM: That’s not to say we don’t get on each other’s nerves, as we said! But we have a different language. There’s things I don’t have to *say* to Hermione--she intuits my meaning. That’s priceless in our line of work. _
> 
> _ RS: You seem to really love one another. _
> 
> _ DM: It’s going to sound corny, but… you don’t understand what it’s like until you find the person. Everything you’ve ever heard about what it’s like pales in comparison to the real thing. _
> 
> _ HG: [lays her head on Draco’s shoulder] You have a crush on me, that’s embarrassing! _
> 
> _ DM: Let’s keep it between us. _
> 
> _ HG: I won’t tell if you won’t. _
> 
> _ [Inset photo: Draco and Hermione beside their most recent artifact find, an ancient Sumerian water purification blessing] _
> 
> _ RS: Is there anything you want people to know about you? _
> 
> _ DM: We’re quite ordinary. Hermione doesn’t like to wear matching socks-- _
> 
> _ HG: That’s confidential! _
> 
> _ DM: But otherwise, we’re like anybody.  _
> 
> _ HG: Pretty normal.  _
> 
> _ Draco and Hermione’s home is cozy; the cottage interior has us reminded of a quiet Jane Austen novel, with small corners with comfortable chairs, fit for wiling away an hour or two in contemplation. There’s not much in the way of frivolity, but the personal pieces hold dear meaning. A print in the kitchen has a copy of their wedding vows. A pillow in their guest room bears a striking cross-stitched resemblance to their feline companion. Their dressing gowns have matching monograms. But, as one might expect, everything is purposeful in the home shared by Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger. _

***

And so, with that… Draco and Hermione bid farewell to any whiff of scandal about their relationship from any sources. All objections were put to rest. A week later, Pansy Parkinson showed up unannounced on their doorstep with the deed to Malfoy Manor and a bottle of champagne. Draco accepted the deed from his former fiancee, but no words were exchanged. She gave him a curt nod, and offered Hermione one when she came to the door to see what was keeping him from dinner. Then, Pansy left. They never heard from her again. Pansy and Ron never appeared together in the Prophet again, either.

Draco didn’t give any thought to reinhabiting the Manor--after one last visit with Ermina, they donated the Manor to the Ministry’s historic trust and had done with it. Draco saved one portrait--an old one of him with his mother. Hermione hung it in the cottage library.

The scroll they had been researching with the help of the Oxford Linguistics department turned out to be an ancient Sumerian inventory record from a medi-witch; it was by no means a cursed item, but it was certainly a thorough list of ingredients for healing, which was still a worthy find. More projects rolled in, and with Hermione’s help, other departments within the Oxford system began to open themselves up to the idea of helping the Department of Ancient Artifacts, as they were known. Even the tightest-lipped professors softened to Hermione’s professionalism, and learned to tolerate Draco, which was a start.

Eventually… by the end of summer, Ron sent a terse apology letter addressed only to Draco. It was good enough for Hermione. Ron was allowed to rejoin Weasley family gatherings. He always brought a different date.

By October, Hermione and Draco had settled into their Oxford life so comfortably that it wasn’t unheard of for them to host a book club on a thursday evening with their neighbors, or find Hermione bringing scones to a colleague on their birthday. Everything was as it should be. 

Except one day, a week from Halloween, when Draco found Hermione standing inside the white picket gate leading to their front door. Just… standing there. Frozen.

He had been cooking dinner and waiting for her to return home from her Friday evening tea with Helen, when he had spied her out the open kitchen window. Hermione sniffled and looked up in panic. He clicked the burners on the stove to OFF and bolted outside. “Love? Are you alright?”

Hermione nodded slightly and allowed Draco to lead her inside. He patted her hand as she sniffled again, sitting at the kitchen table. He knelt at her feet.

“What is it, Hermione?” He rubbed her knees. She silently pointed to her bag, which he had deposited on the coatrack by it’s long leather strap. Draco raised an eyebrow but obeyed the gesture, retrieving the bag. He handed it over.

“So. Um.” She opened the flap. “Remember when I went to see Helen two weeks ago on a Wednesday instead of a Friday?”

“Because she was busy that Friday,” he finished.

Hermione shook her head. “She wasn’t.  _ I was _ .”

“Were you?” He traced soothing circles on her kneecap like he knew she liked when she was panicking.

“Do you remember how I haven’t been on the pill because I was getting sick from it, and I kept putting off switching because we were so busy… but then we kept having sex because--”

“Because I cannot keep my hands off of you,” Draco finished, sitting on his knees. 

“Yes, well… I went to the doctor that day, and again  _ today  _ to confirm it.”

“Hermione, what are you trying to tell me?” His breath caught in his throat. From the front pocket of her purse, Hermione produced an envelope. She handed it over to Draco. He flipped open the top of the envelope and peered inside. Draco immediately sat back on his heels and swiped a hand up his face. His eyes were wet. He looked like he might explode with joy. “Am I going to be a dad?” he whispered. 

Hermione nodded. “I’m eight weeks along.”

Draco grasped her face in his hands, even as he held the ultrasound photo of an indistinguishable bean-like fetus between his fingers. “Were you afraid I wouldn’t be happy?”

“No,” she peeped. “But… What if something happens to me? What if something happens to our baby?” She folded into herself and he caught her, head cradled in the crook of his shoulder. “What if I am gross?”

“Darling, nothing will happen to either of you. I’ll make sure of that.” He stroked her hair. “And you’re going to be the most adorable pregnant woman ever.”

“What if I throw up all the time?” she sobbed.

“Even then,” he laughed. “I will hand you saltine crackers and water and rub your back. We can do this, Hermione!” He coaxed her out of his comforting hold and kissed her cheeks where her frightened tears fell. “We’re going to have a baby. We made a baby!” He hugged her around the waist and willed her to take some of his joy.

“I couldn’t do this with anyone but y-you,” she hiccoughed. 

“I should hope not,” he teased. He pulled back from her enough to level with her gaze. “What do you need?”

“Reassurance. That I’ll be alright, that nothing will happen to our baby.”

“You’re right, and you have it.”

“If it’s a girl, we are NOT painting our baby’s room  _ pink _ .”

“No child of ours will have a pink bedroom!” He exclaimed with mock-seriousness.

“I’m serious, Draco! I want something neutral. Like green.”

“...Are you sure you weren’t meant for Slytherin?”

“And we’re not naming our child after a bloody constellation!”

Draco let out a great big chortle of a laugh. “Fine, fine! No star child for us.” He kissed her forehead. “Whatever we decide, it will be what’s right for us and our baby. Not anyone else. Just us.”

“Is Ermina around? I need to ask her opinion on paint colors--”

“Okay, take a deep breath. Ermina is in bed, you know how she likes to get an early morning start. Love, it’s going to be alright!” 

Hermione let out a long, slow breath that she had apparently been holding for weeks. “I know it’s too soon to have a baby, but--”

“I think we’ve learned by now that nothing is ever too early for  _ us.”  _ Draco helped Hermione to her feet. “Come on, love. You deserve to relax in a warm bath.” He stuck the ultrasound photo to the refrigerator with a magnet shaped like a bunch of grapes. Then, Draco took his wife by the hand. 

He led her into their loo. Hermione sniffled to herself, curling into her own arms, clutching tightly to her elbows, while Draco knelt beside the bathtub and set it to fill. He coaxed her feet out of her little suede flats and massaged her ankles, which had been a bit swollen all day. She shrugged out of her cardigan when he bid it, and unzipped her dress. She shivered when she was bared to him, but he rubbed her arms and helped her step into the bubbly water, which he had supplemented with lavender bath salts b. Draco rolled a towel and placed it behind her neck as she sank into the water. He left her alone for a few minutes and came back with a cup of tea and a pillow. The pillow went behind his back as he sat against the side of the tub. The teacup was placed beside him within her reach. 

“Just… talk to me?” Hermione asked softly. “Help me calm down.”

“I can do that. Um… well, my mother had a difficult time getting pregnant,” Draco started. “My father was not affectionate, and they weren’t often intimate--”

“Is regaling me with your parents’ sexual history supposed to help me relax?” Hermione snorted. 

Draco laughed. “I’ll get to the point, I promise.”

“Fine, but the less detail about your father’s sexual proclivities, the better.”

“That’s fair. So, it took awhile for my mother to get pregnant, and so when she finally did, she was scared about something happening to compromise what might have been her only chance to have a child. My father was unsympathetic. She was constantly ill, poor woman, and the only person there for her was Ermina. By her third trimester, my father was always away from home--I don’t think I have to tell you with whom he was embroiled at that time.”

“I can guess.”

“Yes. The way things were going, she was worried her child would become some sort of… instrument for my father’s misdeeds.” Draco looked at his hands. His fingers worried the knotwork on his wedding ring. “And as you know, I sort of did.”

“Draco,” Hermione soothed.

“It’s alright.” Draco turned to her and smiled. He leaned on his elbow. “The time came to deliver me, so mother and Ermina went off to St. Mungo’s. I was safely born after… twenty three hours of labor.” He cringed. “You know how I like to make an entrance!” 

“Oh Merlin,” Hermione laughed. She sat forward and touched his cheek. “My love, I know you’re trying to help but this isn’t making me less nervous or worried!”

“I’m getting there,” he said, grabbing her hand. He rubbed her wet skin. “My mother made two unbreakable vows in my lifetime. Both of them were to protect me. I think you know about the one she made with Snape.”

“Mhm.” 

“The  _ first _ one was with Ermina on the day I was born, asserting that Ermina would protect me even if something happened to mum. Even if she had to protect me against my father. I don’t know if I would’ve made it out of childhood if it weren’t for that house elf in the other room.” Draco kissed her knuckles and a wave of realization washed over Hermione’s face. She got teary. “I survived thanks to a mother who loves me, and thanks to Ermina. Between myself and  _ her _ , you will have everything you need. Even if I have to make an unbreakable vow with Ermina to protect you. Which I would do, but I don’t think it will be necessary. Does that ease your anxiety at all?”

Hermione looked him up and down and shook her head in awe. “I’m so thankful we have Ermina. And  _ you’re _ going to make a good dad.”

He kissed her forehead. “I’m going to try my hardest.”

Hermione sank into the water up to her chin and closed her eyes in utter relief. Draco laughed and left her to her own devices, but not before fetching her a pair of pyjamas which he had charmed to be nice and warm.

After a nice dinner of reheated stew, and staring at the ultrasound photo together for a while, Draco tucked Hermione into bed. He lit his favorite candle on his side table, the one that smelled like lilacs, and cracked open the book they had been reading nightly. Hermione snuggled into his side. 

“I want to ask Mark and Helen if they’ll be honorary grandparents. In lieu of them being able to actually know that I’m having their blood grandchild,” Hermione said. She smoothed the quilt where it was draped over her stomach. “And when the baby is born, I hope that your mother can be there.”

Draco laid his head against her hair. Her messy bun tickled his nose. “Considering that the birthing ward is one floor above the hospice ward, I think that’s highly doable. And Ermina is going to be so elated to have a baby to dote on; when do you want to tell her?”

“In the morning,” Hermione yawned. “Do you want a boy or a girl?”

Draco was quiet for a moment. He sniffled a bit. “I never thought I would have a child until you, so I don’t know. What are you hoping for?”

“I just hope that our baby looks like a little carbon copy of you.”

He laughed. “Oh no… Hermione, our child must have your glorious hair!”

“Fine, fine. My curls but  _ your _ blonde.”

“Agreed.” Draco chuckled, and then sighed happily. 

They said nothing more about it--in truth, the fact that Hermione was pregnant felt like the culmination of each of their dreams and intentions. Against everything… here they were. In their little cottage, in their bed, in a loving marriage… with a baby on the way. They were the Granger-Malfoy’s, a little family.

And suddenly, it sort of felt like nothing else had mattered until now. No amount of turmoil from the past could diminish what they had. 

Crookshanks curled up at the end of their bed. Draco blew out the candle. “Love you,” he whispered into his wife’s glorious, unruly hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all she wrote! Thank you so so so much for following along on this journey! I've had a blast writing this story. <3

**Author's Note:**

> This was simply brain crack at first, and now it will be multiple chapters--ha! I blame my endless marathon of Holiday rom-coms. Enjoy!


End file.
